The Legacy
by highlandgypsy
Summary: The Black Sheep are down to only 14 viable aircraft and Colonel Lard is trying to catch the squadron flying at less than combat status. Greg has a plan to get his hands on another bird but when things go sideways, the 214's embedded war correspondent Kate Cameron takes matters into her own hands.
1. Chapter 1

A series of accidents leaves the Black Sheep with only 14 viable aircraft. Colonel Lard continues his campaign to catch the squadron flying at less than combat status and Greg's plan to get his hands on another bird is crazier than anything he's done yet. When things go sideways, the 214's embedded war correspondent Kate Cameron takes matters into her own hands. This is the story of Corsair #403, which I referenced in "New Horizons." Enjoy! Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!

 **Chapter 1: The Reunion**

 **Summer, 1960**

 **Tahoe Vista, California**

Kate Boyington sat on the pickup tailgate near the end of the airstrip, one hand idly scratching the dog leaning against her and the other gripping a pair of binoculars. She took her hand off the dog to push impatiently at the tangle of curls the breeze had pulled loose from her ponytail. The ponytail, plus her T-shirt and faded Levis jeans made her look younger than her 39 years. She swung her feet idly, scanning the blue dome of the sky and humming Glenn Miller's "In The Mood." The dog cocked her head. She was a pretty creature, half of her face solid black, the other half a swirling mix of blue merle fur. One eye was blue, the other brown.

"It was a hit, you know, back in the day," Kate informed her. The dog looked doubtful.

Kate hummed the opening riff of the big band era classic, breaking off as a sound caught her ear, a distant whine coming from the north. Raising the binoculars, she searched until she found it, a dark speck against the cloudless blue over the Sierras. A smile broke across her face as the speck grew larger and the familiar gull-winged shape of a Chance Vought F4U Corsair came into focus as it barreled down the valley.

The sight and sound carried her back in time to a tiny South Pacific island and the Marine fighter squadron who called it home that summer in 1943. All she had to do was close her eyes and she was there again. The tropical breeze tinged with the scent of aviation fuel and airplane exhaust. The shout of mechanics on the flight line. The interminable leaking tents. Outdoor showers. Air raids. Mud and mosquitoes and a constant shortage of everything. A man with blue eyes that left her breathless and a smile that held her heart. Waking up in his arms made it all bearable.

The plane was almost on her now, a scant 300 feet above the ground. The massive propeller blades chewed through the air and Kate could hear the distinctive throb of the 2,000 horsepower Pratt and Whitney R-2800 Double Wasp engine. The trademark whistle was music to her ears.

The dog did not share either Kate's appreciation of vintage aircraft or her stroll down memory lane. She shoved her head under Kate's arm, trembling as the plane roared overhead.

"Get used to it, Spirit." Kate gave the dog an affectionate squeeze. "You're gonna be hearing it a lot."

The plane swooped into a steep climb and executed a series of stomach-churning barrel rolls before diving sharply. Kate caught her breath, held it, then let it out on a long exhale as the plane pulled up, leveled off and soared back up the valley, the pilot putting the machine through a series of lazy maneuvers that left her smiling. The noise of the engine echoed in her bones even as the plane faded again into the distance. The dog let out an audible sigh of relief.

God, that was a rush, Kate thought, lowering the binocs. She would never, ever in her life, tire of watching that man fly. She couldn't suppress a smile, remembering how she hadn't appreciated that particular skill when they first met. That man. Commanding officer. Fighter pilot. Ace. Friend. Confidant. Lover. POW. Husband. Father. Soul mate.

It was a gift, she thought as the plane reappeared, his ability to finesse even the most decrepit craft into airworthiness with the touch of his hand. Heaven knew he'd had enough practice. This old warbird purred like a kitten but there was no denying she'd seen better days. Still, the government had been reluctant to part with her and it had taken every ounce of Greg's won't-take-no-for-an-answer persuasion and under-the-table dealing to have it routed to their place near Lake Tahoe instead of the boneyard in the Arizona desert where it was destined to rust quietly into oblivion.

"I see he got it up." A teasing voice startled her out of her reverie and Kate turned to see a slender woman about her age with elegant carriage and strawberry blonde hair approaching. "John said you were out here."

"Hey, Tori." Kate grinned and slid over to share the tailgate. "He got it up all right. Did you have any doubt?"

"Never." Tori Hutchinson hoisted herself onto the tailgate on the other side of the dog, who wiggled her butt in greeting. The two women and the dog sat, watching as the plane carved lazy figure eights in the afternoon sky.

"Is it, um, a good idea to be flying that thing?"

"No," Kate sighed. "Not really. But you know Greg – that never stopped him." After they'd been reunited at the end of the war in '45, she'd given up worrying about anything Greg Boyington did. She didn't care, as long as they did it together, which was how they'd come to run a charter air service after he left the Marine Corps a few years earlier. It had turned out to be the best decision the family had ever made.

"What did you do with the kids?" Kate asked, looking around. The late summer day sparkled blue and green and gold.

"They took off on horseback about half an hour ago. Your two, our three and a couple more that I'm not sure where they came from."

Kate laughed.

"Neighbor kids. They practically live here. Where'd you leave Hutch?"

"He's back in the hangar on the radio with Greg. I understood about every third word they said. Oil-cooler-flaps-this and elevator-tabs-that. It was like we were back on La Cava." Tori turned her face up to the afternoon sun. "I'm so glad you and Greg put this reunion together," she said without opening her eyes. "I can't wait until everyone else gets here. It's been so long."

Kate grinned.

"I'm glad you and Hutch could come out early. Greg's been like a kid at Christmas, wanting to get that bird in the air again. He took it up a couple of times last fall when it got here, then I made him promise to wait until Hutch could at least give it a once over before he got serious about doing anything with it. Honestly, I have no idea _what_ he's going to do with it." She shaded eyes. "Once everyone else gets here for the reunion, they'll all want a turn. It's a good thing we're so far from town. No close neighbors to complain when the crazy starts."

The two women sat in silence, petting the dog, who wiggled with contentment.

"Joy wants to fly it," Kate said resignedly. There was no doubt what _it_ was. "She turns 17 this summer and she's more excited about getting her pilot's license than she is about her driver's license. She's solo'd in the Cessna. Greg said he'd let her fly that thing after she got a few more hours under her belt. I told him it better be a thousand more hours of flying for her and a thousand more hours of rebuilding for that bird. She goes out now and sits in it." Her sigh blended pride and exasperation. "She's her dad's girl, no mistake."

Kate gestured toward the plane, which begun to lower toward the airstrip.

"Come on, let's go back. It looks like he's setting down." She squinted, blinked and snapped the binoculars up again. "Shit. He's on fire!"

Tori leaped off the tailgate and both women and the dog piled into the cab of the 1952 Ford F150. Kate dropped the truck into gear and they headed back toward the single large hangar and cluster of outbuildings that comprised Boyington Charter Air Service.

The plane dropped toward the strip and touched down with feather lightness in spite of white smoke billowing from under the cowling. The pilot cut the engine and the big fighter's momentum carried it several hundred more yards before it coasted to a halt.

As Kate pulled the pickup to a stop, a lean, dark-haired man bolted out of the open hangar door with a hand-held fire extinguisher.

"Hey, Hutch, I brought her back smoking for old time's sake!" the pilot called, shoving the canopy open. The humor in his tone indicated the situation wasn't serious. He climbed nimbly out of the cockpit, scrambled onto the wing and dropped to the ground. A fog of sodium bicarbonate engulfed the engine as John "Hutch" Hutchinson blasted it with the extinguisher.

Shaking her head, Kate folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the pickup's grill. Tori joined her. The dog raced to meet the man, launching from a few feet away for him to catch her in mid-air. He gave the dog a hug then set her back on the ground where she spun in ecstatic circles.

Colonel Greg Boyington, USMC Ret., pulled off his helmet and sunglasses, revealing dark hair shot through with gray. He smiled, blue eyes sparkling with an energy that belied his 52 years. Dimples creased his cheeks and in spite of the choking cloud of smoke emanating from the engine, Kate thought he looked delighted.

"Old girl flew like a dream until she overheated," Greg called cheerfully. "Oil temp went up in a hurry and hit red-line before I could set down. You need a hand, Hutch? Hey, Katie, grab that other extinguisher. There's one in the back of the truck."

"Nah, I got it." Hutch gave a final blast with the extinguisher. "Some things never change, huh?" He shot both women a grin.

Greg strode over and wrapped an arm around Kate's waist. She could feel the adrenaline radiating off him. It _did_ feel like the old times, meeting him and the other Black Sheep on the line after a mission, the air charged with testosterone and the high arousal state of men who thought themselves to be – for the moment – immortal.

Kate stretched up on her toes to give him a quick peck on the cheek. Greg tossed helmet and glasses onto the hood of the pickup, then wrapped his hands around her waist and took her mouth in a hard kiss. She responded without hesitation, sliding her arms around his neck and giving herself to the heat of embrace. How many missions had ended like this during the war – those hot, heartfelt kisses as she welcomed him back, affirming survival and love while the Black Sheep cheered and made rude suggestions in the background.

"Get a room, you two," Tori said with a sideways glance.

Greg pulled back.

"Some things get better with time." He winked at Tori and nodded toward Hutch. "I imagine you know that."

Hutch brandished the extinguisher.

"God knows how old the oil is in that crankcase and I'd bet those hoses haven't been changed since Truman got elected. Some things might get better with time, Greg, but this ain't one of them. You're not taking this bird up again until I've pulled the engine apart." He shot a look at Kate and grinned. "Katie'll kill me if you kill yourself."

Greg ignored him. He slung an arm around Kate's waist and turned back toward the plane, which sat, looking elegantly decrepit. Hutch blasted the engine with a final shot and set down the extinguisher.

"That's her, Hutch, number 403," Greg said quietly. "You can barely read the number, it's partially painted over, but it's her. We've known it since Bennett ferried her up here from Arizona last fall but we haven't told anyone else."

Kate, who knew the significance of the plane's number, watched both Hutch and Tori's expressions light up with sudden understanding.

"Are you shittin' me?" Hutch said, staring at the plane as though he were seeing it for the first time.

"Isn't that the one . . .?" Tori's question faded. Hutch stepped up next to his wife.

"Yeah, that's the one Greg stole from the Navy after TJ got splashed near Kahili in '43," Kate said.

"I didn't steal it. Exactly." Greg's expression was angelic. "Besides, I had help. You three were there, too."

"Yeah," Hutch muttered. "I was there, all right. In the brig, right alongside you."

"I stand corrected," Kate said with mild sarcasm. "You didn't steal it - you _borrowed_ it. And forgot to take it back."

"I didn't forget, sweetheart. I just plain didn't take it back it. There were extenuating circumstances." Greg's grin was broader than ever now.

Kate caught Tori's eye.

" _On your feet, Corporal!"_ she barked. The former Navy nurse began laughing. Kate joined her, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity. Soon both women were leaning against their men, wiping away tears and gasping for breath.

"Oh God," Kate said, clutching her stomach. " _On your feet, Corporal!_ There were so many ways that could have gone sideways and I thought we were all going to get court martialed. I will never forget walking into the brig at 0500 and scaring the crap out of that poor kid."

"Neither will I, _Lieutenant_ _Commander_ ," Tori said darkly. "That stunt was nearly the end of all our careers. So help me," she jabbed a finger at Hutch and Greg, "you are not telling that story in front of the kids – our kids, your kids, anybody's kids. They don't need to know everything we did in the war. They think we're a bunch of old fuddy-duddies and I think that might be for the best."

"They wouldn't believe us anyway," Hutch said. "I still can't believe we pulled that off. Of all the Black Sheep capers, that had to be the best."

"I was sure glad to see the two of you that morning." Greg shook his head at the memory. "Talk about angels of mercy."

"Angels of mercy? More like angels of scared shitless. If that wasn't living proof love makes you do stupid things, I don't know what is," Kate said archly.

Hutch slid an arm around Tori's shoulders and looked at Kate.

"If it hadn't been for you two getting us out of there, I don't know what would have happened," he said.

"It would have been the end of the Black Sheep, for damn sure," Greg recalled. "We were down to14 planes we could put in the air with reasonable expectation of them staying there and Lard was trying to catch us out every chance he got."

"Damn TJ. That whole thing was his fault in the first place," Hutch mused. "He's coming for the reunion, right?"

"He'll be here with Helen and the kids at the end of the week. I told Helen he owes me a case of Scotch when she called to say they were coming," Kate said. "That caper took at least 10 years off my life. Stealing -" she cut her eyes to Greg and amended, " – borrowing that plane in the first place, then again when Lard came looking for it the next day."

"You and me both, Cameron," Greg said, a bemused look on his face. "If I hadn't been in love with you before, that would have done it. Nothing like having your girl break you out of the brig and help you steal a plane."

"Ha," Kate said. "So you finally admit it. You did steal it."

Greg shrugged.

"Desperate times called for desperate measures," he said loftily. "Hutch and I just did what we had to do."

"Desperate measures," Tori said with a dainty snort. "I thought both of you guys were mental."

"Yeah. They were. And we were right there with them." Kate's voice was soft with the memory.

She looked at the quietly smoking plane, its patchwork paint etched by the erosion of time. It was like a portal to another dimension. she thought. Standing in the sunshine with Greg's hand warm around her waist and Tori and Hutch sharing their laughter, Kate let the memory carry her back.

 **XXX**

 **August 1943**

 **Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ**

 **On the beach, 0530 hours**

Kate "K.C." Cameron had woken up in some odd places during her career as a photographer and reporter for the Associated Press.

The 22-year-old war correspondent had awoken in the London underground during the Blitz with her head on a stranger's shoulder and her arms around a small child nestled in her lap.

Beneath a Hawker Hurricane on an RAF base at Leanach, Scotland, with a pounding hangover and vivid memories of a discussion about what a Scotsman wore under his kilt. The Scotsman in question had woken up next to her. She had the answer to her question.

And once, to her immense confusion, in the bunk of the commanding officer on the base where she was now serving as an embedded war correspondent. Although, she reflected, that had resolved itself nicely.

But her current situation might be the oddest yet.

She was on the beach of the South Pacific island that served as the base for USMC fighter squadron VMF 214, the Black Sheep. The fact she was a woman posted with an all-male unit had initially been the result of miscommunication and assumption. It had continued thanks to deliberate subterfuge, skillful timing and a complete disregard of regulations.

After an initially rocky introduction to the squadron, no one – including her – had seen fit to bring her female status to the attention of anyone higher up the chain of command. What the brass on Espritos Marcos didn't know, wouldn't hurt them. The fact Colonel Thomas Lard had assigned her to the 214 without ever meeting her was his problem, the Black Sheep agreed, not hers. Lard had erroneously presumed K.C. was short for Kevin Charles or something similar, not Katherine Christine.

Either way, Lard's signature was clear on the agreement with the Associated Press even if the man's own personal agenda in stationing a member of the press corps with the Black Sheep was considerably hazier. After a fair amount of suspicion and distrust by all parties involved, it had become clear where Kate's allegiances lay – personal as well as professional.

Kate blinked. It was near dawn. The sky to the east shimmered with the rose glow promise of the coming day. It wasn't like she'd never woken up on the beach before. She and Major Greg Boyington, the CO of the 214, spent the night on one of the island's private beaches whenever they needed to escape the fishbowl atmosphere of the base. The beach was their go-to spot for time alone, whether it was unwinding with a bottle or sharing something more intimate.

But honestly, the circumstances of her waking on this particular morning were a first.

Kate was curled on her left side, her face comfortably against Greg's chest. His left hand was draped around her waist, the heat of his body dispelling the slight chill of the morning air. There was nothing particularly unusual about this, she thought. She'd woken this way more than once with him and the only thing even remotely odd was that they both still had their clothes on – her, shorts and a sleeveless shirt that had been part of one of the boys' uniforms in another life and him, a T-shirt and fatigues. She felt the rise and fall of his steady breathing, the warmth of his hand. His head was pillowed on his right arm. Her own hands were curled in front of her. Meatball, Greg's white bull terrier had snuggled himself in between their legs like a furry hot water bottle.

None of which accounted for warmth of the body pressed close behind her. Or the hand on her rump. The hand wasn't doing anything untoward but Kate wasn't sure who it belonged to. It seemed, in her half asleep, slightly hungover state, its placement was a little presumptuous since she did not remember giving anyone permission to put it there. She was still getting comfortable with the idea of waking up with one man outdoors. She had no intention of making it a habit to wake up with more than that, especially when she didn't know who the second party in question was.

Her mind searched through the alcohol soaked mist of the previous night, trying to resolve both the issue of the anonymous – and uninvited – warm body spooning hers as well as the reason she was waking with Greg, fully-clad, on the beach. Seriously, she needed to stop drinking so much. It didn't help the 214 was a hub for some of the best Scotch traveling through the South Pacific. The stuff flowed like water and she was as much of a connoisseur as any of the boys in the unit.

Then it slammed into her with the impact of an exploding grenade.

TJ had been shot down the day before.

The sense of loss washed over her, bringing her fully awake but immobile.

Lieutenant TJ Wiley had been shot down during a tangled dogfight near Kahili. No one had seen a parachute and it was unclear if he had jumped clear of his fatally wounded aircraft. They were over enemy waters at the time. There'd been no way to have air-sea rescue pick him up.

It wasn't the first time one of the Black Sheep had been lost. Living with a fighter squadron, it came with the territory, even though the boys rarely talked about it. There existed an unspoken understanding that if they didn't put it into words, it couldn't happen. There was no room for admission of vulnerability among the men when the very act of climbing into the cockpit every day painted a target on their backs. They drank, laughed, flirted and fought like there was no tomorrow because for some of them, there wasn't.

She just didn't think it would ever be TJ. By his own admission, the kid wasn't the best pilot she'd ever known but he'd improved by leaps and bounds and even had a few kills. Like all the rest of the Black Sheep, he was an impossible combination of innocence and scheming and skill who could wrap his arm around a nurse and pull her in for a kiss or land a punch in the Sheep Pen and send an offender flying out the door. She could hear his voice, teasing her into dancing with him the very first night she'd arrived on La Cava. It seemed like eons ago. Now he was gone.

The boys had built a fire on the beach and sat in a kind of vigil, drinking and telling stories until the bottles ran dry and they staggered back to their tents or passed out where they lay. Captain Jim Gutterman had taken it exceptionally hard. TJ had been his wingman, for better or worse, since the squadron formed. In the early days, there had been a lot of _worse_ but the two had bonded with that inseparable sense of trust that forms when a man holds himself accountable for another man's safety. Jim had been blasting an enemy fighter out of the sky when TJ's plane took the fatal shot. He had been inconsolable.

The night's vigil hadn't been a memorial. Not yet. Not until they had definitive word TJ had been declared killed in action. Until then, they clung silently to a faint thread of hope that he was still alive and waiting to be rescued. Kate knew she and Greg could have faded away to their spot, a secluded cove where they both could have poured the sorrow of the squadron's loss into their lovemaking but his men needed him here. And, she knew in her soul, he needed to be with them. Loving a fighter pilot was a chancy proposition. No matter how intensely they loved one another, his men would always hold part of his heart. It was one of the reasons she'd fallen in love with him in the first place. He might be a rogue with a complete lack of regard for regulations but the man's sense of honor was sterling.

Kate struggled with denial. TJ couldn't be gone. He just couldn't. He had to be floating around somewhere in the South Pacific or washed up on one of the thousands of coral atolls that dotted the theater. They'd find him. They had to find him. He was too irresistibly charming to have died when his plane smashed into the ocean and broke into a million pieces.

Her mind came full circle, back to the problem of the hand on her backside. Regretfully, she rolled away from the warmth of Greg's body and sat up, dislodging Meatball and shoving the errant hand back at its owner. It turned out to be none less than Jim Gutterman. The dark-haired Texan, one of Greg's executive officers and a hard-drinking, womanizing, all-around troublemaker who would give his life for anyone in the unit – including her - didn't wake up. Instead he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Kate's bare leg instead. Kate was ready to throttle him. She had her doubts about how sound asleep he really was.

"Pappy!" An excited voice issued from the near distance. Kate heard boots pounding on the sand. "Hey! Everyone! Wake up! Good news!"

Lieutenant Larry Casey's tow-headed figure appeared, running pell-mell down the trailhead onto the beach. Kate blinked and looked her watch. 0540. Somehow, Casey managed to be in uniform, shaved and hair combed, even though she knew he'd been drinking just as hard any of the boys the previous night. How did he _do_ that? According to Casey's steady girl, Dee Ryan, who was one of Kate's best friends and a nurse at the Navy hospital on the island, he was equally always prepared for any contingency on land, sea or air. Any contingency, Dee had said with a wink and a blush.

"TJ's alive!" Casey hollered as the men rolled to consciousness, groaning and stretching. Here and there, a few nurses were waking up next to their boys. "The Navy fished him out! He's on the _Yorktown_ , a little beat up but he's okay!"

"That's great news, Casey, but the _Yorktown_? Isn't she about a hundred clicks south of where he went down? How the hell'd he end up there?" Kate heard the relief in Greg's whisky roughened voice and felt the news wash away her own sorrow. Another of the Black Sheep had dodged the bullet, literally.

"I know – I don't know!" Casey was practically jumping up and down. "But he's all right. They'll send him back as soon as they can."

Jim woke, blinking, but didn't offer to move his hand. Kate moved it for him for the second time.

"Damn it, Gutterman! Get your hands off me."

"Sorry, darlin'." The Texan rolled to a sit. "I was having a wonderful dream."

"I'm happy for you but I don't want any part of it."

"Too late."

Jim gave her a friendly leer and Kate narrowed her eyes at him. She was undeniably Greg's girl and Jim would never do anything that might get him some bent teeth but he'd push the envelope with her every chance he got. It had become a game with them. Kate knew Greg could put a stop to it with one word – or one swing – but Jim was harmless enough even though she wasn't at her best at this hour. Honestly, she didn't mind the boys' teasing. It was often gallows humor and she wouldn't begrudge any of them a few minutes of flirting when all their lives were so uncertain.

"Don't kill him, Cameron." Greg must have seen the quick flare of temper in her eyes. "I've got enough paperwork to deal with the way it is. And now I've got to come up with another plane." He scrubbed a hand over his face and Kate could tell his mind was already sorting through and discarding options.

She marveled for the hundredth time at the man's ability to consume vast quantities of alcohol and still be clear-eyed and functional within seconds of waking. Granted, it was an ability they both shared, just one of the threads woven through the tapestry of their relationship in spite of the 13 year age difference. When they first met, she hadn't wanted any part of him beyond the cooperation forced on them both by her posting to his unit. His feeling about her had been mutual. Those feelings had changed.

Greg squeezed Kate's arm and stood up. He extended a hand to her and pulled her upright. She read the relief radiating from his smile. TJ was the whole squadron's self-improvement project but none of the pilots had helped him more – or believed in him more - than Greg.

"Damn it, Wiley," Jim muttered. He was still sitting on the blanket, cradling his head as if it might fall off. "I was drinking like you was dead and now you got the balls to turn up alive and I got to fly with a damned hangover today."

"All right, you meatheads," Greg called out, "get up, let's go! We've still got a mission to fly at 0900. Casey, you'll take A Flight. I'll take B Flight. We're a man short until we get TJ back so I want everyone on top of their game. You've got three hours to catch some rack time or load up on coffee. Briefing at 0830. Let's roll."

Around her, men began staggering back toward the base. Kate fell into line, fantasizing about vats of steaming coffee as the sun burst over the horizon to shower the beach in a sparkle of gold.

Just another day in paradise, she thought. Another sunrise, another mission and now they'd be flying it with one less pilot. The loss of TJ's plane dropped them to 14 viable aircraft, one short of the number required for the squadron to maintain combat status. That was another thing the brass on Espritos didn't need to know.

 **XXX**

 _That was the thing about life with the Black Sheep. Honestly to God, you never knew what was going to happen next. It's bad enough when you're living in a war zone to start with but those boys had a way of making even the most ordinary day memorable. Which wasn't always a good thing. - Kate_

 **To be continued**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Requisitions and Rejection**

 **Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ**

 **Flight line**

"Major, you gotta put 15 planes in the air to maintain combat status." Master sergeant and VMF 214's line chief Andy Micklin brandished his cigar at the battered collection of F4U Corsairs sitting at the edge of the jungle. "After Mr. Wiley took a splash, you ain't got 15 planes. Now you got 14 planes and something that might pass as a Corsair if you looked at it in the dark with one eye closed." He indicated a corrosion-etched, oil spattered, sun-bleached, scabrously painted airframe that had been pushed back to the tree line. White painted numerals proclaimed it number 317.

"Yeah, Micklin, I know," Greg grumbled. "And that one will fly just fine with a little work. Maybe if you'd get after it instead of standing around jawing about it, we could put 15 in the air when we go up tomorrow."

Micklin glared at him and Greg knew he was pushing the limits of the man's volatile temper.

"Fly?" The line chief adjusted his cigar. "I don't even know if that thing will start. It's been sittin' there since Boyle set it down with the landing gear tucked up in its belly and we had to drag it off the strip. That was a month ago. We're still waitin' on new gear and Lord only knows what else that college boy done to it."

He slapped a hand on the aileron of the nearest plane, which belonged to Jerry Brag. It was stitched with holes from the morning's close call with a Japanese Zero.

"Lookit this mess!" Gaining momentum, Micklin waved his hand at the black streaks on the plane's nose where the engine had been throwing oil. The steady drip of hydraulic fluid from the plane's port wing was loud in the still afternoon. "What you and them college boys have been doin' to these planes is a crime in all 48 states."

"If you haven't noticed, the enemy likes to shoot at us when we're up there," Greg said with exaggerated patience and stabbed a finger skyward. He resisted the urge to throttle the line chief. The worst part of it was, Micklin was right and they both knew it. The Black Sheep came home victorious from their missions but those victories came with a price. Sometimes it was a plane. Sometimes it was a pilot. Greg made it a point to bring his boys back home in as close to one piece as possible but it didn't always happen that way. When the Black Sheep lost one of their own, he felt like the letter he sent to the downed pilot's parents was written in his own heart's blood.

To make it even worse, it was easier to replace a pilot than a plane. The War Department had no shortage of boys coming out of flight school but all the rationing in the world couldn't turn out new planes fast enough, let alone get them delivered out here on the back side of nowhere. Not only was it damned near impossible to get new aircraft in this corner of the theater, getting parts to maintain their existing planes was a never-ending string of requisitions and intricate black market deals.

"And if you ain't noticed, we ain't exactly rolling in replacement parts." Micklin jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the mechanics' shed behind him and Greg wondered if the line chief had suddenly become a mind reader. "So if you plan to keep Colonel Lard from taking this squadron down, you're gonna have to get yourself another plane. And start bringing the ones you got back in better shape."

Greg rolled his eyes. He didn't know which would be easier. The Black Sheep were not in the habit of flying cautiously.

"You wouldn't know what to do with all your spare time if you weren't putting us back together," he said.

Micklin didn't miss a beat.

"If you don't come up more oil, I'm gonna find out cuz them birds ain't gonna be in the air no more. They're gonna be sittin' right here, seized up tight. Maybe if you spent less time dealing for Scotch to quench your own thirst and more time working those black market connections for useful things, we'd be in better shape around here."

That hit a sore spot.

Greg jabbed a finger at Micklin's chest, pulling up just short of poking the man's grease stained T-shirt.

"What do you think we're using to pay for that black market oil? And plugs? And mag points?" This time he emphasized his point by prodding Micklin in the chest. It was like poking a sweaty cinderblock. "That Scotch is currency out here and you damn well know it."

Micklin didn't move. He looked down his nose at Greg's finger.

"Do that again, Major, and you and me are gonna have a come to Jesus meetin' right here."

Greg glared at him, not giving an inch. Micklin glared back. It was times like this Greg really wanted to take a swing and lay the line chief out in the dirt but that wouldn't gain him anything. He knew because he'd done it once. He and the old-school Marine would never see eye to eye but Micklin was skilled at his job and had the mechanics doing the best with what they had.

That was the problem. Their best was restricted by the limited resources. Even Sergeant John "Hutch" Hutchinson, the unit's head mechanic and all around miracle worker, couldn't make something out of nothing forever. Until now, they'd only had to juggle resources for oil and parts. Now they needed to replace an entire plane. Even miracle workers had their limits and unless Hutch had connections with the man upstairs that Greg didn't know about, it was going to take more than black market wheeling and dealing to get this job done.

The sound of an approaching motor cut through this dismal train of thought. He and Micklin turned to see a jeep roll slowly along line, its occupants garnering wolf whistles and teasing suggestions from the mechanics along the way. Greg didn't have to look to know who was in that jeep. While female personnel from the hospital visited the base frequently, they rarely went past the Sheep Pen. Greg could count the number of girls who felt at home on the flight line on one hand and have fingers left over. Kate Cameron and Victoria "Tori" Bishop were as comfortable out here as any of the men.

"Hey, Hutch!" Greg called over his shoulder, "Tori's here."

Micklin muttered something about females on his line and stomped off. From one plane away, Greg heard Hutch's muffled expletive followed by something that sounded like, "Why does she always come out here when I smell like a water buffalo!"

The lean, dark-haired mechanic slid down the ladder and hastily wiped at the oil streaking his bare chest. That didn't do much good, since his hand was equally covered with oil from the engine he'd crawled out of. He realized the futility of trying to remove eight hours of dirt in two minutes and gave it up as a bad job.

Greg grinned, the pending oil-parts-whole-damn-airplane crisis temporarily pushed to the back of his mind. First Lieutenant Victoria "Tori" Bishop had turned Hutch's world inside out when she arrived at the La Cava hospital in the aftermath of a scandal and cover-up back in the States. The romance between the squadron's top mechanic and the wealthy socialite-turned-Navy nurse had created the most unlikely couple on the island.

Second most unlikely, he amended.

He knew he and Kate occupied the number one spot. It had been some kind of miracle they'd ever met in the first place, let alone fallen in love. She'd transferred from a posting in the United Kingdom and traveled halfway across the globe to the Southwest Pacific, running from the ghost of a relationship gone bad. Her assignment to the 214 sure as hell hadn't been his idea. His aversion to the press corps was well known and the last thing he'd ever wanted was to have a correspondent embedded in his unit. When she arrived, the boys started a bet on how long she'd last. Reporters out here didn't have much of a track record when it came to the duration of their visits. Kate had proved the exception to that rule and all the others.

Time and circumstances had overcome their confrontational start. Once he realized she wasn't there to do a hatchet job on the Black Sheep, Greg started to act on the mutual attraction smoldering between them. His grin widened at the recollection. It had been a slow seduction that burned long and hot before exploding into open flame. The flame was still there, even if they both had to keep it banked much of the time. Too much of the time.

As the jeep pulled to a stop, he let his eyes slide appreciatively over both girls. It would be a crime not to.

Tori Bishop was tall, with a willowy build and strawberry blonde hair cut in a short bob. She waved in greeting then ducked under the wing of the adjoining plane to find Hutch. The mechanic had abandoned any pretense of cleaning up and smiled broadly as he watched his girl approaching. The bag of medical supplies slung over Tori's shoulder gave her the appearance of having a legitimate reason to visit the base.

Greg crossed his arms and studied Kate as she swung her legs out of the jeep. He could never get enough of watching her. Her sun streaked light brown hair was caught up in what had started the day as a tidy pony tail. The tropical breezes and humidity had teased loose wisps and curls that framed her face and neck with reckless allure. Her gray eyes sparkled with humor, her trademark quiet grin spreading across her face when she saw him watching her.

She was wearing shorts, low leather boots and a sleeveless white shirt, open at the neck. The shirt had possessed sleeves at some point in its past but the girl was notoriously hard on her clothes and didn't pay a lot of heed to fashion. Didn't matter. She'd look stunning in a gunnysack. Or out of it. Greg knew the unconventional clothing covered a lithe body with a pin-up's curves and to top it off, the most spectacular set of legs he'd ever seen. That was saying quite a bit, as he'd spent a good part of his 35 years noticing women's legs.

Kate was the light and anchor in his life even though a lot of days he still wondered how in the hell that had happened. While the Black Sheep had been quick to appreciate her good looks and absurd level of tolerance for the fraternity house atmosphere that often permeated the base, Greg had been a lot slower to warm up to her. He'd suspected – incorrectly – she'd been assigned by Colonel Lard to provide 24/7 press coverage of the 214 in an attempt to undermine the squadron, which was notoriously poor at handling the press.

He couldn't have been further from the truth. As he got to know her, they'd grown to be allies and friends and, eventually, lovers. The 13-year age difference had no impact on their relationship and the two of them found in one other, soul mates amidst the tempest of the war. He loved her and everything that came with her – hot temper, dry humor, fierce independence, alarming resourcefulness and an occasional complete lack of good sense. She sparkled like a jewel amidst the rough setting of the base.

He hadn't known he was in love with her until she'd thrown herself into a crashed and burning plane to rescue the pilot, thinking it was him. It had been a revelation for both of them and in the ensuing days – and nights – their relationship had grown beyond physical. She was good for him, a balance and complement that filled a long-existing void in his heart, one that had never been touched by the long string of empty relationships and one-night stands that had marked his life before she arrived. She was the cool voice of reason when a crisis hit – which was entirely too often in a front area – and the molten heat of shared passion under his hands – which was not nearly often enough for either of them.

She was good for the Black Sheep, too, and by now she was as much a part of the squadron as any of the pilots or ground crew. Her writing and photography had splashed them over the Stateside papers with a carefully crafted skill that cast them as all-American heroes, making it hard for Colonel Lard to make progress on his personal campaign to eliminate the 214.

The fact that she was doing this without Lard having any idea K.C. Cameron was a woman only added to the delicious sense of pulling one over on the brass on Espritos. If Lard ever found out there'd be hell to pay and Greg knew his neck would be first on the chopping block but she was worth the risk.

 **XXX**

 _The best thing about having Kate stationed on La Cava was, well, hell, it was hard to narrow it down to just one thing. She was as much a Black Sheep as any of the boys only she was a damn sight nicer to look at. She made us look above reproach in the Stateside papers and she helped me keep my head on straight when things started to go south, which happened a lot out here. It's not often you get a gorgeous, smart, funny, tough girl as an unofficial executive officer. She had a few other skills I appreciated, too. - Greg_

 **XXX**

Kate waved at Hutch as she got out of the jeep. The mechanic returned the gesture. Kate laughed as Tori flattened one hand on his sun-browned chest and shoved him back against the plane's wing. She pointed her index finger at a less-than-tidy bandage wrapped around his bicep. Hutch shrugged and took advantage of her proximity to angle in for a kiss. Kate looked away, respecting the illusion of privacy afforded by the plane's bulk.

There was something about serving out here, she thought, that made age and socio-economic boundaries disappear. Physical attraction ignited as a spark that blossomed into all-consuming flames destined to either burn out or catch and hold in spite of whatever the war threw at it.

Hutch and Tori were one of those couples whose fire caught and burned with a steady flame. She and Greg were another, in spite of his complete lack of use for the press corps and her rock solid determination not to mix her professional and personal life. That had lasted until the first time he kissed her. It got complicated after that.

She was aware of Greg watching her, felt his gaze as though he were running his hands over her skin. It was the same look he'd given her two minutes after they first met, those hot blue eyes covering her in slow appraisal. He liked what he saw and she knew it. So did she, she thought, matching his lazy inspection with one of her own. He was perfect. Every last inch of him, front to back. The man could even make a utilitarian flight suit look good, she thought, and with an inward sigh clamped down on a train of thought that was bound to go unfulfilled any time in the immediate future.

"Boyington," she said, shoving her hands in the pockets of her cut-offs and stepping into the negligible shade cast by the plane. The tropical sun was brutal.

"Cameron." A lazy smile spread across his face and Kate heard the inflection in his voice. Invitation. Promise.

Their greeting was typically casual. Kate made it a point of avoiding public displays of affection. It was one thing for the boys in the squadron to know their CO was sleeping with the resident war correspondent. It was another thing entirely to pour fuel on the fire of their endless suggestive teasing by being seen making out on the flight line. Or in his tent. Or her tent. Or any other number of places around the base. By mutual agreement, she and Greg kept the public face of their relationship, if not exactly cool, at least low key. More or less. Sometimes a girl couldn't help herself.

"Thought I might need a whip and a chair to keep you and Micklin from killing each other," she observed. "The usual college boy menace and lack of parts argument?"

Greg grimaced.

"Worst part is, he's right. Losing TJ's bird hurt. We'll fly our mission tomorrow with 14 and pray Lard doesn't have spotters counting. He'd love to know we're below combat status. Of course, one Black Sheep equals three of any other squadron so it really shouldn't matter."

He grinned and Kate was reminded, again, of just one of the reasons she loved him. His impossible blend of confidence and arrogance, combined with a never-say-never attitude, had built the Black Sheep up from a collection of screwballs and misfits into the terror of the Southwest Pacific. The man could make anything happen once he set his mind to it. There was simply no way of telling him no once he got an idea in his head. She knew that firsthand.

"I don't think Lard shares your point of view." Jim Gutterman rounded the nose of the plane to join them. "Hey, Katie, I don't suppose you could whip up a story that would get the good colonel to drop a couple of new planes in our laps, could you?"

Kate pushed a stray curl behind her ear and squinted up at him.

"I'm good, Jim," she said with quiet confidence, "but I'm not that good. I think you boys might have better luck just stealing one."

"Who knows?" Jim shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

"Steal one?" Greg's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Where do you come up with this stuff, Cameron?"

She grinned, undaunted.

"You got a better plan?"

"From your lips to God's ear," Greg said. "Let's go have a drink and give it some thought."

 **XXX**

 _Someday I'd learn to keep my mouth shut. Years later, I still wondered what might have happened if I hadn't planted that thought in his head. Of course, if I hadn't, the Black Sheep might have ceased to exist so I guess it all worked out in the end. Besides, he probably would have come up with it on his own anyway. The man had already stolen an entire squadron, what was one more plane? - Kate_

 **XXX**

 **The next day, late morning**

 **The Sheep Pen**

"Um, Greg?" Casey looked up from the paperwork in front of him and scratched his head, puzzlement etched across his clean-cut features. "I don't think you can do this."

From the corner table where she was putting crop marks on a stack of black and white photos, Kate watched as Greg uncorked a bottle of Lawson's and poured two fingers into a canteen cup. He tossed it back with the ease of a seasoned drinker and poured two more. The morning's mission, flying cover for a bomber wing over Bougainville, had been brutal but the Black Sheep had all come back in one piece. Some of those pieces had holes in them but at least they'd all come back.

"I can't do what? Drink before noon? I damn sure can if Lard keeps his spies counting our planes."

Kate bit her lip. Greg had told her about having to improvise a fast story that morning for why the 214 had shown up without a full complement of planes. He hadn't been sure if the commander of the bomber wing believed him or not when he said one of the Black Sheep had to turn back with an engine malfunction and another pilot had accompanied him home. It wasn't a complete lie. TJ's bird certainly had an engine malfunction, given that it was sitting at the bottom of the Slot.

"Well," Casey said hesitantly, "I guess you _can_ do this but it's probably not gonna work."

Greg sat the bottle down on the table in front of his exec and added a second cup. Then he looked at Kate and added a third.

"Here. I'm not drinking alone." He motioned at Casey. "You deserve it after this morning."

"And you deserve it for putting up with us," he said to Kate. She smiled and raised her glass to tap it against the men's. It was 5 o'clock somewhere.

"Slainte."

She knew Greg's sense of humor was often the only thing that kept him from beating his head on the wall. The morning's mission had emphasized the 214's latest crisis. The Black Sheep were an exceptionally talented unit but raw skill only went so far against the fully manned, well-supplied Japanese fighters they were facing. At bare minimum, Greg had to replace TJ's bird but it wasn't like Colonel Lard was just going to give him a new one because he asked for it. And while Lard might be an idiot in some respects, the man could count to 15 and Kate knew if he caught the 214 routinely flying at less than that, there'd be hell to pay. Sometimes she wondered whose side he was on.

"So what is it you think I can't do?" Greg asked after Casey had taken a drink. Kate wondered that, too. Telling Greg he couldn't do something usually meant he'd not only do it but make it look so easy other commanders would wonder why they hadn't thought of it themselves.

"This." Casey tapped the requisition form on the table with his forefinger. "I don't think you can do this."

"Sure I can." Greg grinned at the look of doubt on the junior officer's face. "Put it in the courier packet with the other requisitions and send it to Lard. We have to start somewhere. If that doesn't work, then we'll take matters into our own hands but don't let it be said we didn't try to go through channels first."

Which meant they'd end up taking matters into their own hands, Kate thought. Going through channels did not have a high success rate and the unit did it only to keep up an appearance of complying with regulations. Colonel Lard was famous for rejecting most of the supply requisitions that came from the 214, whether it was tent canvas or airplane parts. Kate suspected if Greg was requisitioning airplane parts, this time he'd asked for them in to come assembled in the form of a whole plane. She shared Casey's doubt. She didn't think he could do that, even though he obviously just had. The man was a law unto himself.

Casey opened his mouth to reply when the screen door banged open.

"Look who I found!" Tori walked into the building, her arm around TJ Wiley's waist. The tall pilot was limping and his youthful face sported a number of contusions but he wore an ear-to-ear grin. The room erupted with welcoming shouts.

"Wiley!" Jim bolted across the floor to wrap his wingman in a hearty embrace.

"Well, lookit that! The phantom of East Philadelphia's back!" Don French announced.

"We thought you was shark bait, Wiley!" Bobby Boyle called.

"I did, too," TJ said when the other squadron members quit pounding on him. "But Doc Reese says I checked out fine. I'll be good as new in a couple of days."

"You're off the flight roster until you heal up," Greg said. "No rush. We don't have a plane for you anyway."

"Hell, Wiley, you don't look like you can even stand up by yourself," Jim observed. Tori pulled out a chair and TJ lowered himself gingerly into it, then accepted a glass of whisky from Greg. Kate squeezed his shoulders and bent to give him a peck on the cheek.

"So glad you're back with us," she said. TJ looped an arm around her neck and kissed her hard on the mouth, much to the amusement of the other boys. She broke away, surprised and laughing.

"Just wanted you to know how much I appreciate you, Katie," he said, grinning. Seeing the look on Greg's face, he added, "Aww, come on, Pappy, cut me some slack, I just had a near death experience."

"Do that again and you're gonna have another one," Greg said but there was no heat in his words.

"Tell us what happened," Jerry said. "We knew you was hit but nobody saw a chute. We was all praying you'd bailed but them was enemy waters, how'd you get fished out by the _Yorktown_? Wasn't she stationed a hundred miles south?"

TJ sipped his whiskey, relishing being the center of attention.

"I splashed down – and let me tell you boys who haven't had that pleasure, water makes for a hard landing – and got out of my chute. I'm bobbing up and down like a cork, pretty sure there was a Zero up there who was gonna come finish what he started and all of a sudden, something yanks on my legs. I figured I was a goner, if the Japs didn't get me, the sharks would but I'd hit my head and was so out of it, I couldn't fight it.

"Then I realized whatever had hold of me wasn't dragging me under, just pulling me along. I was caught in some kind of current and it was hauling me along at a pretty good clip. One of the Zeroes did come down for a little target practice but just about then, I hit a fog bank. Then it got dark and that wasn't much fun, either. There was all sorts of debris in that current and I climbed onto a tangle of driftwood and held on tight. By the time the sun came up I'd busted clear of the fog and there was the _Yorktown_. One of their spotters saw me and they hauled me out of the drink." He took a long pull on his whisky. "Sorry I lost the plane, Pappy. I know we don't have any to spare."

"Don't worry about it." Greg waved a negligent hand and refilled his whisky glass. "I've got a plan if Lard doesn't come through with my requisition."

"Oh lord," Jim muttered. "Here we go again."

Kate echoed his sentiment but didn't say anything. In her experience, when Greg said, "I've got a plan," shit got real, either upstairs or on the ground. There was no telling what he had in mind this time. She raised a glass with the other boys and toasted TJ's safe return.

 **XXX**

 **Espritos Marcos, Allied Rear Command**

 **Two days later**

"Boyington, no!"

Colonel Thomas Lard hit his desk in frustration, causing coffee to slop out of the cup and splatter the stack of requisitions. The subject of his ire wasn't even in the same room. Major Greg Boyington was out somewhere over the Solomon Slot, doing one of the things he did best.

Somehow, Lard thought, the man had found a way to do two of the things he did best at the same time – beat the hell out of the Japanese and find another way to get under Lard's skin.

The requisition form that regulation defying miscreant had filed had the same effect as if the major himself were standing in front of Lard's desk with that damned I'm-doing-it-my-way-whether-you-like-or-not smile on his face.

Lard read the requisition, squinted, rubbed his eyes and read it again. Boyington was requisitioning a new plane. Not parts this time, a whole new plane. Lard blinked. The neat handwriting didn't change: 1 F4U Corsair. Lard scowled. The man had balls to requisition an airplane like he was ordering Scotch in the officer's club. Did he think those things grew on trees?

Lard rifled through the accompanying forms: engine oil, tent canvas, magneto points, ammo, lumber to rebuild the ops shack after it got blasted in a recent air raid . . . the usual miscellany for a front area base.

"I'll give him the damned oil but he won't have enough planes to put it in," Lard muttered through clenched teeth. "I know he's not flying at combat status even though every time I turn around, the coast watchers are confirming their kills. If I could just catch them at it, I could dismantle that bunch of renegades and get them out of my hair for once and for all." He ran a hand over his head, ignoring the irony of his bald pate. "He can't keep flying missions without enough planes and at this rate, pretty soon they'll be going up on broomsticks. Ha!"

"Sir?" The office door opened a crack and a dark haired secretary in a trim uniform stuck her head into the room. "Is everything all right? I thought I heard voices."

Lard waved a hand dismissively.

"I'm fine, Margaret. Just fine. As you were."

Margaret nodded and returned to the outer office, her arched eyebrows expressing doubt.

With a great deal of satisfaction, Lard stamped "rejected" on the requisition that had caused his blood pressure to skyrocket. The "rejected" stamp was his favorite. It was wearing out and he'd need a new one soon.

 **XXX**

 _I knew Lard wouldn't give the 214 a new plane just because I asked for one. Asking him for anything practically guaranteed we wouldn't get it. And I meant it when I told TJ not to worry, I had a plan for finding another plane. I was just a little hazy on the details at the moment. These things take time and that was something else in short supply. - Greg_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Beg, borrow or steal**

 **Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ**

 **Kate's darkroom**

A knock sounded on the darkroom door as Kate lifted a print out of developer and slid it into the tray of fix. It was a shot of Meatball, Greg's bull terrier, sitting in the cockpit of his owner's plane. The dog was wearing flight goggles and grinning like an idiot. It was one of those absurd shots she wouldn't send back to the States but that would be added to the gallery of candid photos on the wall of the Sheep Pen instead. When the boys' sense of humor played out in front of her lens she couldn't resist.

The knock sounded again.

"Cameron? Is it safe to come in?"

She smiled at Greg's voice. He rarely used her first name. She was usually just _Cameron_ , like one of the boys. _Flight line in two minutes!_ _Boyle! French! Cameron!_

Occasionally, she was _sweetheart_ , usually with a side of dry humor. A _re you going to drink that whole bottle by yourself, sweetheart, or do you plan to share?_

Only in moments of privacy – which were frustratingly rare in the fishbowl atmosphere of the base – did he use her given name. _Do you know what you do to me, Kate?_

She could hear his smoky tone and shoved _that_ particular memory aside. It set off a train of thought that had nowhere to go once it left the station.

"Come in," she called.

The outer door swung open and Greg stepped through the blackout curtain, careful to pull it back into place behind him. Out in the Sheep Pen, Kate could hear the boys' revelry. Beer bottles clinked and high spirited teasing abounded as they celebrated the day's successful mission. These days, making it back to the base alive equaled success.

"If you're looking for the recon film, I just got the negatives done," she said without looking up. "I'll print them next."

Greg kissed her lightly on the back of the neck. Embers of heat sparkled through her system and she tried not to smile. God knew the man didn't need any encouragement.

"What if I'm looking for something else?"

"Then you're going to have to wait." She twisted to kiss him absently over her shoulder, her mind on the next print she had framed in the enlarger. This one would be going to the Stateside papers. It showed mechanics and ground crew working to secure the squadron's planes, palm trees tossing against a storm-dark sky and thunderheads towering ominously as a weather front moved in.

"What if I don't want to wait?" His lips grazed her neck again, teeth nipping at the tender skin of her throat.

 _Damn._ Kate set the exposure and pressed the timer button.

"You've got seven seconds. Go."

He pulled her into his arms and closed his mouth over hers. Kate matched his intensity, one hand sliding down to stroke his hip as the kiss deepened.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Hey Greg? You in there?"

Kate broke the embrace and buried her face against his chest with a resigned sigh. Making out in the darkroom always seemed good in theory but was a complete failure in reality. God knows they'd tried it enough. Ironically, it was the first place she'd grown to trust him after she came to the 214. He'd helped her as she developed the squadron's recon film and he kept his hands to himself in the confined space. In the process, he won her trust while unintentionally wearing down her determination not to mix business with pleasure.

"I need more than seven seconds," she whispered. Tremors ignited by the kiss were still rippling through her.

Greg squeezed her waist.

"So do I, sweetheart. Yeah, come in," he called over his shoulder. The timer on the enlarger buzzed and Kate shifted him to one side to drop the print into the tray of developer.

Jim stepped through the curtain, pressing his broad-shouldered, 6 foot, 1 inch frame against the wall.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" He grinned and Kate knew she was wearing her emotions on her sleeve. Again.

"Would you leave if I said yes?" she asked. The darkroom was also where Jim had made an ill-fated pass at her shortly after she'd arrived on La Cava. Once she'd made it clear she wasn't interested in him, their relationship had evolved into an easy friendship, albeit one cloaked in non-stop teasing.

"No." Jim's grin got bigger. "You better take it easy on him, darlin'. He's not as young as he used to be. Maybe you oughtta take up with someone more your age. Like me."

"Shut up, Gutterman," she said good-naturedly. Jim's teasing about the age difference between her and Greg never stopped and getting upset with him wouldn't change anything. She centered a sheet of photo paper in the enlarger, adjusted the negative and set the timer.

"What's on your mind, Jim?" Greg leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

"Bet it ain't the same thing that's on yours." Jim chuckled and shot a glance at Kate's backside.

The timer beeped and she pulled the print off the enlarger.

"Get out of my way." She elbowed Jim in the ribs and both men shuffled to the left to give her access to the trays of processing chemicals.

"Damn, woman, you're bossy," Jim said.

"My darkroom, my rules," she said mildly. "If you don't like it, there's the door."

The dark-haired executive officer grew serious.

"I been talking to Hutch. He means it when he says half those birds are one set of points and plugs away from not coming back. If Lard don't loosen his grip on our supply line, we're gonna have to take matters into our own hands or we ain't gonna last much longer."

Kate pulled the picture of Meatball out of the fix and slid it into a water bath. She'd heard it all before. It was practically the 214's mantra – reuse, repurpose, recycle. Parts, ammo, oil – you name it, the unit never had enough of what they needed. Things had improved slightly since the stories she wrote for the Stateside newspapers put the 214 in the spotlight. Colonel Thomas Lard had been called on the carpet with questions about why the squadron with the best kill record in the Southwest Pacific wasn't getting the supplies it needed. Lard had eased his stranglehold to a degree but he wasn't about to give Greg and the Black Sheep any more than he absolutely had to. Casey filled out endless requisition forms although Kate thought it was largely just to keep up appearances. Then Greg, Jim and Casey finessed a twisted network of black market deals to get what they needed.

"Pappy? You in there?" Casey's muffled voice sounded outside the door.

"Come in!" all three of them chorused.

Casey wedged his way into the room. He looked annoyed and brandished a handful of papers. Kate slid by him to frame another negative in the enlarger. The atmosphere in the room was becoming a heady mix of soap, laundry detergent, engine exhaust and sweat with overtones of Scotch and testosterone. It was what she'd come to think of as the scent of the South Pacific. It wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"Lard rejected your requisition," Casey said without preamble.

"Which one?" Greg's skeptical tone said he knew exactly which one.

Casey scowled.

"The one we can't trade Spam and toilet paper for. I don't know how much Scotch it would take for a new bird but I'm pretty sure we don't have that much."

Greg rubbed his jaw.

"Damn."

"What's worse, there's gonna be eight brand new Corsairs arriving at Espritos on Thursday. They're for VF 118," Casey continued.

Greg snorted in disgust.

"Commander Giles Atwood's boys? Might as well drop 'em in the Slot now and save the Japanese the trouble."

Jim bristled immediately.

"The Navy? Atwood gets a whole new wing just because he's married to a Congressman's daughter and said pretty please? Those anchor clankers couldn't even land one of those birds on a carrier without bouncing it off the deck until the Brits showed 'em how to do it." He glowered. "We been taking Tojo apart for six months but _they_ get the new birds?"

"Time for Plan B," Greg said.

"Plan B? What happened to Plan A?" Jim still sounded annoyed. "I don't even know what Plan A was."

"Plan A was Cameron's idea to steal one." He looked at Kate and winked. "But Plan A never works. You should know that by now." Kate thought the look on his face didn't mean he'd abandoned the idea entirely.

"So what's Plan B?" Casey looked resigned. Life with the Black Sheep was spent in the constant pursuit of Plan B. Kate got the feeling whatever it was this time, it would only be a makeshift patch until Plans C, D or E could contrive a more satisfactory solution.

Greg pushed off the wall and straightened his shoulders.

"Plan B is we convince Hutch and Micklin that Boyle's old bird on the edge of the boneyard is airworthy. It's not much but it's all we've got for now. If we can get 15 in the air again, it'll keep Lard off our butts while until we come up with something better. Casey, start calling around and see if any other units have a set of decent landing gear off a plane they're ready to scrap. I don't care if the 15th bird ever fires a shot. It just needs to go up with us so Lard's damn spies can count it. I'll fly it if I have to."

The timer beeped. Kate moved toward the enlarger and stepped on Casey's toes.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry!" She stepped back and trod heavily on Jim.

"Ouch, darlin'!"

"Oh for the love of God," she said, exasperated. "Why are all of you in here, anyway?" She took Casey by the shoulders and steered him toward the door. "Go." Stepping behind Jim, she planted her hands firmly on his back and propelled him after Casey. "Out. Get out."

She turned to Greg.

"I don't even know why you came in here in the first place."

He smiled and took a step forward. Kate stepped back. He took another step forward. She stepped back and ran up against the wall. Greg's smile broadened and she felt her heart skip a beat. Those eyes, those dimples left her helpless. Every. Damn. Time.

He kissed her lightly, then brushed her cheek with his knuckles. His hand lingered. Neither of them spoke. She pressed her face against the blunt strength of his fingers, her eyes closed. They had so little time alone she was reluctant to let the moment end but she needed to get these photos printed in time to go out with the weekly mail dispatch. The middle of a war was a hell of a place to conduct a romance. Greg smiled wryly. He jerked a thumb toward the outer room of the Sheep Pen.

"I'll be out here with Casey, going over a list of units that might have a set of landing gear they're willing to part with. Let me know if you need any – "

The wail of an air raid siren cut him off. Probably a good thing, Kate thought, she'd been this close to telling him what she needed.

"Damn," they said in unison and bolted for the door.

The Sheep Pen had emptied. Dashing into the late afternoon sunshine, Kate heard a beer bottle shatter against the side of the building as its drinker tossed it toward the trashcan and missed. She hoped the thrower's aim improved if he were manning one of the base's anti-aircraft guns.

Overhead, a phalanx of enemy planes came in low and fast. A glance told her she and Greg would never make it to the pseudo-safety of the foxhole 30 yards away. As if reading her mind, he wrapped his hands around her waist and tossed her over the railing. He dove after her as the first plane in the formation blasted across the base, laying down hot lead.

Kate gathered herself into a ball and rolled as she hit the ground. Too late she saw the glitter of broken glass from the shattered bottle and felt it slash across her arm. She yelped, then came up hard against the sandbags piled around the front of the building. Greg landed next to her, covering her body with his, and she forgot about her arm as the planes swarmed down on them.

"The fun never ends with you, does it?" he said, his lips brushing her ear.

"You always know how to show a girl a good time."

She held her breath, feeling rounds thud into the packed dirt only yards away. The chatter of return gunfire swept the sky as the Marines fired back. The Japanese planes swept around for a second pass, buzzing like angry wasps. A jubilant shout from a foxhole indicated a hit on one of the marauders and the assault force peeled off, the sound of their engines fading into the distance.

Kate could hear Greg's deep, steady breathing over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. The few seconds' silence was deafening, then the air was filled with the all-clear signal and men's shouts.

"Hey! Can we get an extinguisher over here!"

"Ya'll okay?"

"Yeah but the bastards shot my skivvies off the line."

"Couldn't have put any more holes in 'em than they already got."

"Guess I'll just go commando now – the nurses will love it."

"In your dreams."

"You hurt, Gutterman?""

"Naw, blood pouring out of my head is normal."

Greg released his grip on her and Kate rolled onto her back, pulling air into her lungs and collecting her wits. Around here, there seemed to be a fine line between staying employed and staying alive.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Living the dream." She sat up, rotating her aching shoulder. "What was that little party for?"

"One Zero, a couple of Vals and an old Betty. I'd say it was just a random hit. Tojo better not think he's going to try driving us off this rock again." Greg referenced a series of air raid a few months prior that had nearly caused the evacuation of the base and almost killed Hutch in the process.

He climbed to his feet and pulled her up.

"Hey, what's this?" He twisted her hand palm up.

Kate looked down. A wicked laceration gaped near her wrist.

"Oh bloody hell," she muttered. "I landed on that broken bottle." Blood ran in crimson rivulets, splattering slowly onto the dirt where it left a dark stain. She felt a cold grayness stealing over her like mist and her vision began to blur at the edges.

"Katie." Greg's voice held a warning tone and Kate thought, belatedly, the only other time he used her given name was when she was about to pass out. He'd had a brief experience with this before. While she didn't hesitate to assist anyone who got hurt, her inability to deal with the sight of her own blood was legend. "Look at me, Katie. Don't look at your arm. Look. At. Me."

She swallowed hard and forced her eyes away from the wound. She watched Meatball trotting jauntily through the midst of the chaos, then fixed on Greg's face. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and bound it tightly around her wrist.

"Better?"

"It'll do." Out of sight, out of mind, although she'd be right back where she started as soon as the blood soaked through the cloth.

Hutch jogged up, shaking his head. From the set of his mouth, Kate knew he had bad news.

"They got French's bird," the mechanic said. "A couple of rounds right through the power plant. No patch is gonna fix that." He scratched his head and jammed his cap back on. "If we can salvage the engine off Boyle's old heap, and if you boys light a candle and say your prayers, I'll have Don back in the air by day after tomorrow."

Greg swore. Kate did the math, as much to keep her mind off her wrist as anything else. The Black Sheep had exactly 15 airworthy planes before they lost TJ's. If Casey could wrangle a deal for a set of landing gear and if Greg could coerce Micklin into taking time to rebuild number 317, Boyle's old train wreck, that would haven taken them back to 15, albeit a rather shaky 15. Now, thanks to the air raid, the engine in 317 would have to be sacrificed to keep Don in the air. Which left them right back where they started at 14.

"All right. Make it happen," Greg said, voice grim. "But all we're doing is robbing Peter to pay Paul. I don't know how much longer we can fool Lard. He's got too many eyes on us."

Jim ambled up, a bloody rag pressed against his temple.

"Ricochet," he said, before anyone asked. "Hutch tell you what happened?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "Looks like Plan B is off the table."

Jim motioned at Kate, then gestured at his forehead.

"I could use a woman's gentle touch here."

"Then go to the hospital," she said coolly, raising her wrist. "I've got my own problems."

"You're no fun," Jim grumbled.

In spite of the situation, Kate couldn't hold back a smile.

"You have no idea how much fun I am."

Jim rolled his eyes and repositioned his makeshift bandage.

"No wonder Greg's always got a smile on his face. Say, is your little sister as much fun?"

"You behave yourself around Sarah," Kate warned. Her younger sister, Sarah Cameron, was an Army K9 handler, stationed on Rendova. She and Jim were involved in . . . something. Kate wasn't sure how far it had gone and since the war interfered with their relationship even more than it did with hers and Greg's, she hadn't lost any sleep over it.

Jim chuckled.

"No promises. When we get to see each other, we make up for lost time."

"Plan B was we got 317 back in the air if we had to launch the damn thing with a slingshot," Greg said, redirecting the conversation before it went completely off the rails. "Hutch can pull the engine and get Don's bird back on the roster but that still leaves us one short. Either of you got any great ideas?"

Jim squinted at the flight line. Micklin was stomping around, pointing with his cigar and yelling. Hutch was giving quiet orders to collect tools and equipment for the engine swap.

"Yeah," he said. "We all go to Espritos and get drunk and forget we're stuck out here in the middle of this damned mess."

Greg looked at his exec. He looked at Kate. A slow smile broke over his face. She was familiar with the expression. It blended sharp calculation with a devil-may-care attitude and she knew whatever he was considering would make any sensible person run screaming in the opposite direction.

"Gutterman, you're smarter than you look." Greg clapped Jim on the shoulder, then looked at the Texan's bleeding head as if noticing it for the first time. "Get up to the hospital and have the girls look at that before you bleed to death. Cameron, go with him and get that wrist taken care of. I've got to talk to Casey about Plan D if Plan C doesn't work."

He turned and strode away. Jim looked at Kate.

"Did he tell you what Plan C is?"

"Not a clue. Let's go, you've got blood dripping down your neck."

 **XXX**

 _I thought right then maybe I should have pointed out I'd only been kidding when I suggested he steal a plane. But I'd seen that look in his eyes before and I knew there wouldn't be any talking him out of whatever he had in mind. Trust me. I've tried. The man was in the habit of doing what he thought was right. He wasn't in the habit of asking permission before he did it. - Kate_

 **XXX**

"How many times have I stitched you back together since you've been out here?"

Navy Lieutenant Dee Ryan clipped the final suture on Kate's wrist and admired her handiwork.

"Just once, after Greg and I pulled Crash over there out of his plane," Kate said, nodding across the exam room to where Tori was tending the abrasions on Jim's head. "Tori sewed me up after . . . the other time."

"Ahhh, I remember that." Dee's tone was mischievous and her smile was knowing. "That was the time you cut your leg when you and Greg were on the beach and – "

"And you can just keep that to yourself," Kate said firmly, slanting a look across the room at Jim. He didn't appear to be listening.

"You know those boys talk. You can't tell me Greg didn't tell him what you were doing when that happened."

"Dee Ryan, you shut your mouth," Kate warned.

Dee burst into helpless giggles.

"Maybe you should have taken your own advice," she teased. Kate glared at her. She and Dee had grown up together. Dee went to nursing school and joined the Navy while Kate hired on with the Associated Press and tramped around Europe before accepting the posting that brought her to Vella La Cava. Dee was an inveterate romantic and never stopped teasing Kate about the hazards of her relationship with Greg. Like she had any room to talk, Kate thought. Dee and Larry Casey had been an item almost since the squadron's inception.

"You'll live," Tori informed Jim on the other side of the room. "Good thing you've got a hard head."

"Yeah. Heard that before." Jim touched the square white bandage on his temple. "We're in bad enough shape, losing planes. Can't afford to lose pilots, too."

The four of them were silent for a moment. Jim's words carried the unspoken truth that if they weren't able to come up with replacement aircraft, whether or not they had enough pilots would be a moot point.

"You'd better come down to the base and check on me tonight," he teased to lighten the mood. "I might have a concussion."

"I think you'll be fine, Captain," Tori said mildly, clearing away bits of bloody gauze and the bottle of antiseptic.

"If she comes to the base, she won't be checking on you anyway," Dee interjected. "She's got better things to do with her time."

"Hutch isn't going to have time to spare for anything but work," Jim said soberly. "Pappy's gonna have him and Micklin burning the midnight oil to rebuild Don's bird. We're on stand down for two days but you know Lard's gonna have spotters counting the next time we launch. We gotta have 15 planes in the air, even if one of 'ems just up there for show."

"Seriously, I think it really would be easier to just steal a new one," Kate observed as she slid off the table. She glanced at Jim and raised a warning finger. "But you didn't hear it from me and I'm starting to wish I'd never said it in the first place." She shrugged. "There's got to be one sitting around somewhere you guys can borrow. Thanks, Dee. What would I do without you?" She inspected her bandaged wrist.

"You'd be more of a mess than you already are," Dee said with matter-of-fact cheerfulness.

"Come over later and I'll buy you a drink for your trouble," Kate said. "The Black Sheep may be on stand down for a couple of days but I don't think there's going to be any partying going on. Greg will have them holding a council of war and God only knows what's going to come of that."

 **XXX**

 _They were on Plan C by now, I think. Or maybe they'd moved on to Plan D. Greg and the boys seemed to discard plans as fast as they thought of them. He said he'd abandoned Plan A – stealing a new plane – because Plan A never worked but the look he gave me and Jim after the raid made me think otherwise. Yeah, we were all going to need a drink before this mess was over. - Kate_

 **XXX**

 **Later that evening, in the Sheep Pen**

"I've never seen them look so serious."

Tori nodded at the men at the adjoining table. She, Kate and Dee had been pretending to mind their own business while eavesdropping madly. It wasn't like the boys wouldn't tell them what they were doing but Kate knew there was no rushing them. When Greg decided on something definitive and could run with it, he would tell them. Until then, it was best to stay out of the way. Privately, Kate thought once they knew what was going on, it would still be best to stay out of the way.

She followed Tori's gaze. Greg and the boys had their heads together, deep in conversation. Although beer bottles littered the table, the tone of the gathering was clearly all business. Papers and maps were scattered in front of them and Anderson was busy scribbling calculations. He presented something to Greg, who read it and nodded. The look on his face wasn't entirely satisfied, Kate thought, but it indicated they might have found a workable solution that wouldn't result in their collective court martial.

"Oh yeah," she mused. "They're up to something. I've seen that look before."

As if on cue, Greg lifted his beer bottle in salute and arched his eyebrows in what could only be construed as an invitation to join him. Kate raised her own bottle and returned the lazy grin with one of her own while shaking her head _no_. He could plan whatever crazy-ass caper he wanted, she was not getting involved. Been there, done that. She remembered feeling her heart stop in her chest when Colonel Lard had joined her for dinner that night on Espritos a few months back. She was _not_ getting involved with any more Black Sheep subterfuge. Greg could just tell her what he planned to do and then he could go do it by himself.

"Whatever they're doing, I am _not_ getting drug into it this time," she said aloud, as if to prove her point. "And don't let Hutch talk you into anything, either," she warned Tori as the dark haired mechanic smiled broadly in their direction. "I've seen the look those boys get when they're plotting something that's got illegal as hell written all over it and they think we're going fall all over ourselves to help them."

"I take it you've been pulled into their black market deals before?" Tori asked.

Kate laughed dryly.

"Don't tell me you haven't heard the story about Sergeant Overton and the engine oil deal. That wasn't only black market, it was blackmail. And after I got finished with him, I ended up having dinner with Colonel Lard while I was impersonating a nurse." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Greg owed me big time for that."

"If I remember right, he made sure you were well compensated," Dee teased.

"I'll buy the next round, I want to hear this story," Tori said.

"Use your imagination." Kate drifted back to the night she and Greg spent together when she got back from Espritos. Yeah. She'd been well compensated, all right. That was one word for it.

Tori read her expression.

"Mmm, like that, was it? You'd do anything he asked and we both know it." It was a statement, not a question and the usually quiet nurse blushed at her bold words.

Kate attempt at looking shocked failed completely. She knew her resolve not to get involved in the Black Sheep's under-the-table dealings would crumble the second Greg asked for her help.

"He can be very . . . convincing," she said.

"Mmm-hmm. Thought so." Tori grinned. "I doubt you put up much of a fight, either."

Kate couldn't contain her grin. She valued Tori's friendship as much as Dee's. Both Kate and Dee had whole-heartedly encouraged Tori's relationship with Hutch, watching as their initial acquaintance blossomed into romance. While that wasn't unusual among the Black Sheep, the degree of love and respect the wealthy socialite and the workaholic mechanic shared marked their relationship as a cut above the usual affairs of convenience.

"They've been working on that so long they must be on Plan G by now," Tori observed. "John said Greg's got something up his sleeve about bartering for a couple of planes sitting on Munda but he didn't know any details. Sounded like it might take a while to work out." Tori sobered and sipped her beer. Raised as a daughter of wealth and privilege, she rarely used any of the men's nicknames, preferring to call them by their given names instead. Her sparkling blue eyes and generous smile took the edge off any formality. After three months on La Cava, during which she'd saved Hutch's life, she'd become as much of a renegade as any of the Black Sheep.

 _Planes on Munda?_ Kate hadn't heard that option. Greg and Casey must have come up with that while she and Jim were at the hospital. It beat stealing one, she thought and relaxed a little.

"Whatever it is, he needs to make it happen soon," she said.

This wasn't an entirely new predicament. She'd seen the squadron go through it before. The situation usually remedied itself when Hutch and the other mechanics restored a damaged craft to better-than-factory condition or a replacement pilot arrived with his own plane. Only this time, they needed more than just parts and couldn't expect replacement personnel to come flying in since the unit already had a surplus of pilots. Kate had no doubt Greg would come up with a workable solution. She just hoped it wouldn't involve anything that might end up with the entire squadron in front of a review board.

"Casey says the stand down is temporary. After Wednesday, they're not going to get any kind of a break on missions," Dee said. "That'll make it even worse."

Kate nodded. Action in this part of the theater was feast or famine. She'd watched the boys fly brutal missions every day for extended stretches, only to be followed by days of interminable nothing. Those days were almost worse for morale than the physical and mental demands of the missions. The Black Sheep were incredibly awful at doing nothing and extended downtime usually translated to trouble but right now it would be a godsend.

The front door of the Sheep Pen creaked open and Casey walked in, a look of abject misery on his face. Kate felt the undercurrent of tension that shot through the room and groaned silently. It didn't look like the 214 was going to catch a break any time soon.

 **XXX**

 _In the four months I'd been with the Black Sheep, I'd spent a lot of time watching the boys' body language – really, do you blame me? - and when Casey came in, I could tell things had gone from bad to worse. - Kate_

 **XXX**

Casey tossed a slip of paper on the table in front of Greg. Nobody moved. Kate and the girls sat, frozen in place.

"This just came in," he said in a flat tone. "We're assigned to fly cover for the 182nd Bomber Wing over Choiseul on Thursday. I know some guys in that unit. Their commander's all buddy-buddy with Colonel Lard. We show up with only 14 planes and there's no way we'll be able to keep it under the radar. Lard will have us nailed to the outhouse door the second we set back down."

No one said anything. The silence was broken only by the sound of the ceiling fan chugging through the warm air. Greg shoved the papers spread in front of him to one side in disgust.

"I thought we'd have more time to work this out," he said. "The 221st on Munda has a couple of birds they might be willing to part with but that means negotiating and repairs and that'll take time we don't have. If we fly that mission on Thursday, we might as well just call Lard up and tell him we can't put 15 planes in the air. And if we don't fly it, he'll bring us up on charges for ignoring a direct order." He grimaced. "Lard hasn't tried to have me court martialed in a while. I'd like to keep it that way."

"I don't suppose you know a squadron that's got an extra man who'd like to say he flew with the Black Sheep for a few days?" Jim muttered.

"That wouldn't work either." Greg shook his head. "Action's too hot around here. Nobody's got any pilots to spare and I don't want to drag another unit into our mess anyway. Lard knows too much – he'd come down hard on anyone who helps us. We need a permanent addition but at this point, I'd be happy for a loaner that can't be traced."

"Can't requisition one, can't borrow one, probably can't win one in a poker game," Jim grumbled. "Now what? I'm kind of fond of the screwballs in this outfit. Even TJ's growing on me. I'd hate to see us get broken up."

Greg set his bottle down with finality.

"There's going to be eight brand new Corsairs sitting on Espritos waiting for the Navy to pick them up on Thursday. Give me a little time to work this through." He pushed his chair back. With a nod and a smile to Kate, Tori and Dee, he strode out of the building, his words hanging in the air.

Kate thought about going after him, then abandoned it. He needed his space while he sorted out the details of what was likely to be a hail Mary play at keeping the squadron together. He'd tell them all when he was ready. In the meantime, she joined Tori and Dee as they mingled with the other boys. She studied the mixture of apprehension and quiet pride on their faces.

"He wouldn't actually . . . you know . . . steal a plane, would he?" she asked. It was just a formality. She already knew the answer.

"Kate, he stole an entire squadron," Hutch mused, confirming the exact thing Kate had been trying to ignore.

"He may be crazy but he ain't stupid and we need a plane in a hurry." Jim grimaced. "He means it."

"So what happens now?" she asked.

Casey slumped into a chair.

"Now we wait to see how he's gonna pull this off."

 **XXX**

 _Commander Giles Atwood's boys had one of the worst records in the theater. I didn't see any sense of them having brand new airplanes when the only things they were killing were mosquitoes. I had an idea of how to pull this off but it was going to have a pretty slim margin of error. Like none. And Kate was going to help me make it happen, she just didn't know it yet. – Greg_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The devil's in the details**

 **Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ**

 **0430 hours**

Coffee. She was dreaming of coffee.

Tendrils of rich scent wafted through Kate's mind, teasing her awake with insistent fingers.

Wait.

Those were real fingers stroking across her shoulders and down her spine. She'd recognize those hands anywhere. If she moved, he'd stop. She didn't want him to stop. She wanted to just lie here and -

"Stop playing possum, Cameron. I know you're awake."

So much for what she wanted.

Kate shoved her pillow out of the way and rolled onto an elbow. The hand moved up to push hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. Greg's profile was just visible in the predawn light filtering into the tent. She looked at the luminescent dial of her field watch.

"It's 0430," she said drowsily. "What do you want?"

"I have an idea. Here. You'll need this so you can get started." Greg wafted the steaming mug of coffee under her nose, then set it atop a nearby stack of newspapers. He dropped into her desk chair and sipped from his own mug.

Kate was intimately familiar with some of Greg's predawn ideas and while she wasn't hesitant in principle, she was highly opposed to that sort of activity here on the base. French and Anderson were in the adjoining tent, a scant dozen feet from hers. She knew they wouldn't hesitate to tease her mercilessly if they thought they heard unexpected noises. She wasn't the quiet type.

Her mind struggled with why he'd brought coffee. If Greg was involved, it wasn't like she needed an additional stimulant, no matter what his idea was. She was still puzzling that out when Meatball leaped onto her bunk and curled against her. She wrapped an arm around the dog. He snuggled close and pressed his head against her breasts with a comfortable familiarity that made her laugh.

"Who did you wake up with your ideas before I got here?" She smothered a yawn, not really irritated. Having her sleep interrupted was so commonplace she rarely went to bed with the expectation of sleeping undisturbed until reveille. As if they played reveille here.

"Jim, mostly." Greg's eyes ran up and down her bare legs and the oversized T-shirt rucked up around her hips. She slept without a blanket on warm nights. "But you're a lot more fun." The tone of his voice brought her fully awake.

"So what's this idea you've got?" She really needed to know where this was going. He would never wake her up out of a sound sleep in the middle of the base just to make a quick score. Well, she didn't think he would. He never had before. But that didn't mean he wouldn't. And she had no idea what she'd say if that _was_ why he'd awoken her. Tori was right. She could never tell him no. Talk about being caught with her defenses down.

"I've figured out how we can borrow one of those new Corsairs from the Navy."

Whoa. Kate reined in her thoughts. Clearly they were thinking about two different things. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed. She pushed up to a sit and picked up the coffee mug before it slid off the mountain of papers. Meatball grumbled at being displaced.

"We? Where did you come up with _we_?" She sipped. "I'm a photographer. I don't know anything about stealing airplanes."

"Borrowing," Greg corrected, a smile on his face. "And you don't have to get anywhere near this. In fact, I want you to stay as far away from it as you can. I just need you to write something for the base newspaper on Espritos that will keep Lard distracted for about 24 hours."

"Distracted how?"

"Something that will wind him up so tight he can't think about anything else."

"I see," Kate said slowly, not at all making a connection between Colonel Lard's pending agitation and Greg absconding with a plane. "And don't you think the Navy is going to notice one of their aircraft has been, uh, borrowed?"

"Not if I bring it back before they know it's gone." The words rolled off his tongue with the casual tone that this should be apparent to anyone with half a brain.

Kate took another sip of coffee. It was hot and black and totally not up to the task of helping her deal with the challenge that was Greg and life at the 214. She eyed the bottle of Scotch sitting on her desk and decided against it. 0430 was too early. Probably.

"So you're going to borrow a plane from the Navy, fly a mission, take it back and hope no one notices?"

"Exactly." He reached out and squeezed her knee. "That's what I like about you, Cameron. You always get the big picture."

Kate was pretty sure she didn't.

"And this is going to happen . . . how?"

"Today's Tuesday. We're on stand down – no missions until Thursday when we cover the 182nd. That gives Micklin and Hutch two days to pull the engine in Don's plane and replace it with Bobby's old one." Greg stood and paced the cramped tent, ticking off points on his fingers. "Those Navy planes will be delivered to Espritos tomorrow for Atwood's boys to pick up late on Thursday. Hutch and I will take the mid-week transport over there tomorrow. We can check out the birds before any of the Navy flyboys show up. We'll lay low that night, get out to the field early on Thursday morning - "

 _Dear God, he was serious. He was actually going to steal one of the new planes being delivered for the Navy._

She cut him off.

"Greg, you can't just walk onto the airfield at Espritos and help yourself to a plane without someone noticing!"

"Yeah, I can, sweetheart."

She stared at him. Strong, clean-cut features. Lips curving with the hint of a smile. The T-shirt stretched tight over muscular chest and shoulders. The you're-going-to-see-this-my-way look in his eyes.

Oh, she'd see it his way, all right. But that didn't mean she thought it was a good idea.

"But - " she protested weakly. Meatball crawled back into her lap and reclaimed his territory with a contented sigh.

"Someone has to give those birds a ground inspection and take them up for a check ride before they're released to Atwood's men. No one's going to look twice at a couple of Marine pilots on the field doing pre-flights early on Thursday."

"A couple of pilots? I thought you said Hutch was going with you."

"He is. He can borrow one of TJ's flight suits. He doesn't have to fly anything, just look the part while we're there. The rest of the Black Sheep will stay here and go up for the mission as planned. I'll rendezvous with them in the air before they join up with the 182nd."

"But," Kate wrinkled her brow as she gave in to confusion. "You're only _borrowing_ ," she emphasized the word, "one plane, and Hutch isn't a pilot, so why – "

"Sweetheart, I damn sure want the thing checked out by the best mechanic I know before I'm at 10 angels and find out they put the ammo in backwards." He grinned at her look.

"You can't put the ammo in backwards," she said drily. "And you know that."

He winked at her.

"I still want Hutch with me to give it a once over before I take off. We'll check out those new birds on the field Wednesday afternoon – I'm still figuring out how we'll get out there - then we'll be on the line first thing Thursday morning before Atwood's anywhere around."

It was clear – alarmingly clear – that Greg had given this plan a lot of thought and expected it to work. As if reading her mind, he continued.

"They're brand new aircraft. You can't take those things from the showroom floor to the racetrack without a little break-in first. The tower's going to expect to see them put through their paces after they get ferried off the carrier that's bringing them out." His boyish grin made him look a decade younger than his 35 years. "Hutch and I'll do a walk around Wednesday and scout things out."

"You mean, scout out which one you're going to steal."

"Borrow." The grin got bigger.

Kate squeezed the bridge of her nose. There wasn't enough coffee in the world to make this caper sound sane.

"So you're going to file a flight plan based on a check ride, meet up with the Black Sheep, fly the mission, then bring the plane back to Espritos before the Navy realizes its missing, then walk away like nothing happened? Don't you think they're going to get a little excited when you don't come back for three or four hours?"

"I don't plan on telling them how long the check ride's going to last."

Kate shook her head in disbelief. She opened her mouth to protest, couldn't find any words and closed it again. Meatball nudged her hand and she returned to stroking the dog's ears.

"The mission will take about three hours," Greg continued. "Those Navy boys aren't scheduled to pick up the new planes until 1600 and I'll be back long before that. Hell, I should be able to hop a transport and be back on La Cava by then. Piece of cake."

Kate doubted this very much but she'd seen him in action too many times, successfully pulling off the same kind of insane stunt he'd just described, not to believe he couldn't make it happen. She couldn't help playing devil's advocate.

"Greg, you know you're the first person Colonel Lard is going to think of when he finds out. And he's _going_ to find out."

"No he isn't. He's going to be too busy coming unglued about the story you're going to write for _The Daily Bugle_. Besides, how could I be on Espritos, messing with the Navy, if I was over Choisuel flying cover for the 182nd?"

Kate gave up.

"Does Hutch know about this yet?"

"No. I didn't want to wake him up."

"But you didn't have any problem waking me up."

He rubbed her knee.

"You need to get started on that story for the _Bugle_ if you're going to get it into the Wednesday edition. I want Lard wound up tighter than an eight-day clock." Greg's fingers slid into the hollow behind her knee and squeezed lightly. "Will you do that for me, Cameron?"

Kate looked into his ruggedly handsome face and felt every shred of common sense and journalistic ethics she'd ever possessed fly right out the door. She'd come to the South Pacific thinking the parameters of her job were black and white but the 214 had disabused her of that notion in very short order. Tori was right. All Greg had to do was look at her like that and she'd do anything he asked. And he knew it. She was doing this for the boys, too, she justified, not just him. For the Black Sheep and for the Allies. Yeah. Sure she was. With a monumental effort, she removed his hand and put it back on top of her knee.

"So basically you want me to fabricate a story that will throw Lard into such an uproar he won't notice while you're off borrowing property of the U.S. Navy without authorization to buy the 214 a little more time until you can actually come up with a 15th plane on a permanent basis. And what happens, God forbid, if the mission goes south? You just take a brand new, shiny, off-the-line bird back to Espritos and pray no one notices the lead in the tail feathers?"

"There won't be any lead in my tail feathers."

He said it with the same calm assurance she'd heard him use to talk down some of the boys when they brought their planes home on a wing and a prayer. The absolute conviction of his words made her believe without a doubt this hair-brained scheme would work. It was what made his men follow him with unquestioning loyalty.

Kate took a deep breath.

"Greg Boyington, since I've met you, I've been shot at, almost broke my wrist, nearly got blown up in a plane, masqueraded as a Navy officer to blackmail a supply sergeant, had dinner with a man who'd wouldn't hesitate to throw me in the brig if he ever finds out who I really am and –" she raised her bandaged arm, " - I've had more stitches in the last four months than I've had in my entire life. Now you want me to fabricate a news story?"

"That sounds pretty safe. You shouldn't get hurt." The blue heat of his eyes completed the ruination of her protests as she felt something go molten deep inside her.

"You are the most impossible man, you know that?"

The look on his face said he'd heard that before. Kate gave up.

"Deadline for the _Bugle_ is 2100 hours for the next day's edition. If I'm going to pull a story out of thin air and have it credible by then, I'd better get started." She yawned and stood up. "But don't think for one minute I'm using my byline," she warned.

"You can use whatever name you like." He winked. "I knew you'd see it my way."

He stood to leave.

"Thanks for the coffee but don't think you won't owe me for this," she muttered.

Greg turned over his shoulder, backlit by the glow of the sunrise and smiled.

"So send me the bill."

The tormenting promise of that look left her helpless.

 **XXX**

 _How did he do that? I'd just gotten done telling Tori and Dee the night before I wasn't going to get involved in whatever nutball plan he'd cooked up and here I was, up to my eyeballs in it. He wanted a story? I'd give him a story. At least I didn't have to fly to Espritos and impersonate anyone this time. - Kate_

 **XXX**

 **Later that day**

Kate let go of the pull chain and the downpour of sun-warmed water slowed to a trickle and stopped as the last of the shampoo was rinsed from her hair. With the story in a workable first draft, she'd taken a break to clear her mind. She pushed wet hair out of her face and stood, savoring the quiet of the evening. The setting sun painted the jungle with green-gold shadows as the day's heat eased slightly.

"Katie! There you are! I need to see you!"

"Eeep!" she shrieked, spinning around. Hutch stood on the opposite side of the shower stall door, a distraught look on his face. She grabbed hastily for her towel. "Come a little closer and you're going to see a lot of me!"

She was used to the boys' complete lack of modesty but it never failed to surprise her how they generally assumed she would share their outlook as well. While she was undisputably Greg's girl, that didn't stop them from accidentally-on-purpose joining her at the showers, no doubt hoping she'd take them up on never-ending offers to wash her back or let her wash theirs.

Hutch ignored her frantic scramble and to his credit, kept his eyes on her face. At 6 foot, he could easily see over the top of the wood partition, a fact she realized was going to keep her from getting dressed until he left, which meant she was going to have whatever conversation was about to happen while wrapped in a towel.

"You gotta talk Pappy out of this," he said. Kate adjusted her towel and appreciated his ability to cut to the chase.

"So he told you the details?"

"Yeah, he told me. He's crazier than an outhouse rat if he thinks that's gonna work."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Yes."

"And what did he say?"

Hutch made a face.

"What do you think he said?"

"I'm guessing he just grinned and said be ready to go when the transport gets here tomorrow."

The mechanic's dark good looks twisted into a scowl.

"I've seen that man do some amazing things but no way he's gonna pull this off. He can't just steal a plane and think no one will notice."

"Borrow," Kate corrected, trying not to roll her eyes. "He insists he's only borrowing it." She was starting to get chilly, standing there in a damp towel. "And yeah, he absolutely believes he's going to pull it off. He's got me writing a story for the _Bugle_ to keep Lard preoccupied. What else do you want me to do?"

"I was hoping you could talk him out of it. You know . . .," Hutch's expression turned to a grin, dark eyes suggestive. "Use your powers of persuasion and get him to see the light."

Kate shook her head.

"My powers of persuasion would take his mind off it until the sun comes up tomorrow but you know what he's like when he gets an idea in his head. Besides, he's got to come up with a 15th plane one way or another. I'm starting to think this plan is as good as any."

Hutch stared at her. She pushed at her wet hair.

"Yeah, I can't believe I just said that either. Now get out of here so I can get dressed."

Hutch started to leave, then turned back.

"Kate?"

"What?" The seriousness of his tone brought her up short.

"If this doesn't go well – and odds are it won't - "

"No," she said firmly. "Stop."

If Greg wasn't successful, both he and Hutch would be brought up on charges. Kate had no idea what the penalty was for grand theft airplane. If Greg abandoned the plan and did nothing, they were right back where they started, with only 14 airworthy Corsairs. It wouldn't take long for the 214 to be disbanded, no matter how good their combat record was. There were a million ways this could go wrong and the Black Sheep would pay the price no matter what.

"Never tell me the odds," she said.

Hutch shook his head. Raising his hands in defeat, he turned away from the showers. On his way back up the trail, he called out, "Hey, Katie? Greg was right – you look great in a towel."

He was gone before she could reply.

 **XXX**

 _The only good thing about any of this was that it was so bizarre it certainly had me in the right frame of mind to finish fabricating a story that would tip Colonel Lard right over the edge. A little part of my mind said I'd crossed the line from rational behavior to delusion but I ignored it. Everything I'd done since arriving here had involved crossing lines, including falling in love the leader of these renegades. - Kate_

 **XXX**

This was insane.

Totally. Over. The. Top.

Kate picked out another sentence on her battered Remington typewriter and paused, finessing the story's conclusion in her mind. She picked up a pencil and tapped it against her teeth, wondering just how far she should push this. She was still musing over her complete lapse of good sense when Greg ducked into her tent.

"How's the story coming?"

"This is the most bizarre thing I've ever written," she said with finality. "I wouldn't do this for just anybody."

"Good. Will it get Lard's attention?"

"Without a doubt."

"Is it done?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you interrupted me," she said practically. He shrugged.

"When can I read it?"

"When it's finished. Stop distracting me." She waved a hand absently at her bunk. Greg sprawled out on his back, watching as she tapped out another paragraph then paused again, rolling the pencil across her lower lip. Lost in concentration, she idly licked the end, closing her mouth gently over the eraser and pulling it slowly in and out between her teeth.

"Stop that." Greg's voice broke through her reverie.

Kate jumped. Focused on finishing the story, she'd forgotten he was there.

"Stop what?"

"You know exactly what."

Realization flooded through her but she couldn't help herself. Deliberately, she circled her tongue around the end of the pencil again, never taking her eyes off him.

"Cameron." His voice held a note of warning.

"Boyington." Her tone was innocence as she slowly licked the pencil's length. It tasted awful but she wasn't about to stop now.

"You're going to pay for that." His voice was husky with suggestion.

"Promise?"

It had become a game between them, this verbal foreplay that sparked out of nowhere, the result of a glance or a smile, a silent promise that left her aching for his touch. Some days, it seemed like promises were all either of them were ever going to get.

Hastily, she put the pencil back on the desk and collected her thoughts. He chuckled. She held up her hand to stop whatever he was going to say and with a gargantuan effort, pounded out the two ending paragraphs. She pulled the final page out of the typewriter. Shaking her head at the complete ridiculousness of it, she handed the completed story to him.

Greg quirked an eyebrow at the headline and read aloud.

" _Paranormal activity reported on Espritos Marcos Navy Base! Initial investigation reveals structures built atop ancient tribal burial grounds. Native shaman says hauntings will continue. By Ford Appleton._ " He stopped and raised his eyebrows. "Who's Ford Appleton?"

"He lived two farms west of my parents. Nicest guy in the world when he was sober. When he'd had too much to drink, he'd start telling stories about things he saw that no one else ever did. He'd be delighted to know he's writing for the AP now, especially since he died in 1937." She bit her lip, grinning. "I guess that makes him a ghost writer."

Greg shook his head.

"Cameron, you really are something else."

"You asked for something that would wind Lard up in knots. I think this will do it."

"Paranormal activity? Where'd this come from?"

"I just reinvented some of Ford's better tales and put a local spin on them." Kate shrugged. "Hey, I'm Scottish – I grew up with stories of things that go bump in the night." She pulled an expression of wide-eyed horror. "As if it's not bad enough the Japanese are trying to kill us, now we've got the undead floating around, pissed off because someone built an operations shack on top of their final resting place."

A look of satisfaction spread across Greg's face as he read the story aloud.

" _According to Navy sources who wish to remain anonymous, the highest level of activity is centered on the southeast corner of the base, where there have been repeated sightings of apparitions, many clad in traditional tribal garb. There have also been reports of faulty electronics and other mysterious phenomena, including flat tires on vehicles, unexplained fires, malfunctioning plumbing and on one occasion, small objects have been observed moving of their own accord._

" _On the advice of a medium, officials are considering an excavation to determine if the base is indeed breeching a sacred site. Of particular interest is the ground under the structure housing a number of administrative offices, including –_ " Greg broke off and whooped. _" - the office of Colonel Thomas Lard and his staff. The highest concentration of human remains are suspected to be interred in that area. If that is the case, those offices will be moved to temporary quarters located near the base dump, until further notice, as the ground will once again be consecrated as a sacred burial tract._

" _A Seabee unit will commence with the excavation 24 hours from today, following consultation with elders from the Mirikiana tribe, the natives who formerly occupied the island. Local beliefs hold that the hauntings will escalate in intensity as a result of sacred ground being disrespected. While recent activity has been limited in scope, elders warn manifestations may become more physical in the future, which may result in portions of the Navy base being cleared. A fire ceremony with the traditional burning of sage will be held at sunset on Saturday to appease the spirits."_

Greg set the story back on her desk.

"A fire ceremony? What the hell is that?"

"No idea," Kate said loftily. "And neither does anyone else. By the time anyone figures out the whole thing is a hoax, you'll be back in the Sheep Pen and Lard will probably be in the infirmary, sedated."

"You've outdone yourself."

"So it's what you wanted?"

"It's perfect. You know how Lard is about having everything in order. He's going to be so obsessed with ghosts and worrying about having his office relocated behind the dump, there won't be room for anything else on his radar."

"I hope you're right."

Greg stepped up behind her to rub her shoulders and she groaned with pleasure.

"You're working too hard. When this is over, remind me to make sure you get some R and R," he said.

"Is that what you're calling it now?" She tipped her head back and he traced his fingers down her neck, along her collarbones.

"You can call it whatever you like, sweetheart. We're not doing enough of it." He pulled her easily out of the chair. "We could change that now."

Kate smiled as he pushed her up against her desk. She pushed back, knowing she couldn't out-muscle him but trying anyway. She whole-heartedly agreed with his assessment of their love life. There was never time and if there _was_ time, there wasn't a place.

"We could . . .," he whispered and glanced at her bunk.

"We could not!" she said. As much as she loved him, as much as his touch left her helpless, she insisted their private time be spent as far away from the base as possible, not right in the middle of it. She wasn't a prude but the sun was barely down, for heaven's sake, and God knew the Black Sheep were nocturnal creatures. There was no expectation of privacy in either of their tents with those boys prowling around at all hours.

"Why not?" He kissed her neck, nipping her skin between his teeth. Heat detonated in the pit of her belly.

"Because . . . oh, God, would you stop that." It came out as more of a moan than she intended.

His hands slid up her body, tracing the swell of her breasts as he held her eyes.

"Why not?" he asked again.

"Because . . .," she started, leaning helplessly into the caress, "because . . . damnit . . . Greg . . ." She was falling fast. Much more of this and he'd have her on her back with no argument. His lips skimmed hers and she knew he felt her resistance slipping.

"Hey Greg! Jim said you were here." Casey knocked and stepped into the tent without pausing. He brandished a handful of papers and chuckled unapologetically. "Aw, shit, sorry to interrupt."

He grinned but didn't leave.

"Because that," Kate finished weakly. "That's why we don't do this here." She addressed Casey, "You don't look sorry."

"Casey, get out." Greg barely lifted his mouth from hers. He let his hands slide down to cradle her hips and pull her against him with complete disregard to the fact his exec was standing in the door, a look of amused tolerance on his face. Casey laughed but shook his head.

"Can't. We need to figure out – "

"There's only one thing I need right now and it doesn't involve you," Greg said.

With an effort, Kate wrenched away from him. She took a deep breath, crossed her arms over her chest and clamped down on her reaction, both mental and physical. They had bigger things to deal with.

"What's all that?" She pointed at the papers Casey was brandishing.

"Coordinates for the Choiseul mission and everything you're going to need to file a flight plan for taking off from Espritos," Casey said to Greg. "You'll have to file a plan, even for a check ride. You gotta get your ducks in a row if this is gonna work, Greg. The less they have to stop and think about, the better."

Greg sighed.

"Let's go over this in the Sheep Pen. Cameron was about to kick me out anyway."

"Didn't look like it to me." Casey didn't bother trying to hide his amusement.

Kate narrowed her eyes at him and gathered up the typewritten pages of her story.

"I'm not putting this story on the wire for any other paper to pick up. It's going straight to the _Bugle's_ office and I might need a little help selling them on Ford Appleton's byline. Where's Anderson? I'll have him call up the editor and do one of his impersonations. I've been in that newsroom. They're so short staffed they're one nut short of a fruitcake – they're not going to spend any time verifying credentials." She couldn't help grinning at the subterfuge. "They'll splash this front page above the fold and everyone will be talking about it."

Greg started to follow Casey out of the tent. He turned and pinned Kate in place with his gaze. His eyes were the intense blue that always made her heart skip a beat. Dee would say she should get checked for an arrhythmia but Kate knew that had nothing to do with it. For a moment, they just looked at each other.

"You're good, Cameron." Greg's voice was low. Casey paused just outside the tent door, pretending he wasn't listening. "Have you always been this deviant?"

"No. You've corrupted me," she said firmly. "And don't forget you owe me for this."

"Trust me. I won't."

 **XXX**

 _Casey and I finished ironing out the details while Kate and Anderson headed to the com shack to call her story in to Espritos. Things were falling into place. I had both executive officers, the best mechanic in the theatre and the most creative member of the press corps I'd ever met backing me. The odds had to be in our favor. – Greg_

 **To be continued**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: It was the Navy's fault**

 **Vella La Cava**

 **VMF 214 HQ**

The C-47 set down with elephantine grace and lumbered to a halt on the La Cava airstrip as Greg gave Jim and Casey last minute instructions.

"I'll see you two and the rest of the Black Sheep tomorrow at 1100. If I don't make it for any reason, fly it with 14 planes and show 'em how it's done. We'll figure out the rest later."

His execs nodded. For once, Jim didn't have a smartass reply. Casey looked like he was reciting a silent litany to convince himself this was going to work. Nearby, Hutch and Tori were deep in quiet conversation while cargo was offloaded from the transport onto a waiting truck.

Greg turned to Kate.

"Stay out of trouble while I'm gone, Cameron."

His tone was light but his eyes held hers with unaccustomed seriousness. Lost in their blue depths, she didn't answer. He was freshly showered and shaved, the creases in his dress khakis were knife sharp. She took a selfish moment to admire the spit and polish, along with the steely eyed focus.

The window dressing was tidier than usual but she'd seen this all-business side of him every time he briefed the squadron, seen that take-no-prisoners attitude channeled to an unarguable intensity before a mission where failure wasn't an option. She found it slightly terrifying and a little arousing and it reminded her again, how deeply her heart was entwined with his. The almost palpable aura of power existed just below his easy smile, waiting to pull her into whatever he had in mind with only a word or touch. The steel was always there even though it might be cloaked by a wink and a comment for her ears only. He was one of a kind.

Greg squeezed her upper arms.

"If this goes sideways, I'll end up in front of a review board and I don't want you anywhere near it, you hear me?"

 _Uh-huh, review board,_ Kate thought. _Great minds think alike but it's too late to worry about that now._

"You'll make it work," she whispered. "You have to." She pressed her palms against his chest. "You know Lard's going to have someone counting planes tomorrow and he won't let you off this time. Good luck."

"When you're good, sweetheart, you don't have to be lucky," Greg said quietly. One corner of his mouth lifted in his trademark grin.

Kate wasn't sure she shared that outlook but didn't argue.

"Don't worry, I'll be home in time for drinks tomorrow night."

"You're the reason I drink in the first place," she muttered, a smile tugging at her lips.

"One more thing. You should do the honors." Greg pulled a small paper envelope out of his pocket and opening it, spilled the contents into her hand. Kate blinked at the gold metal stars.

"Now you're impersonating a two star general? But I thought you and Hutch were pretending to be pilots," she blurted. She didn't know why this should be a surprise. She was familiar with the story of how he'd donned the caduceus to con an unsuspecting clerk out of medical records in the process of forming the squadron. Apparently he borrowed rank with the same ease he borrowed airplanes.

Greg flashed an impossibly boyish grin.

"We'll be pilots tomorrow morning. Let's call this a field promotion for just a few hours, to get us onto the airfield this afternoon for a pre-flight, of sorts."

"Pre-flight?"

"Hutch and I need to snoop around and get the lay of the land. They won't let just anybody through the gate but these stars will get us where we need to go. No one's going tell General Harrison Fraser he can't take a gander at the Navy's new birds."

"General Harrison Fraser? Who is _that_?"

"You'd like him. He's a charming devil, a lot like me." Greg winked. "By the time anyone bothers to get his pedigree, the general will be long gone."

"General Fraser, my sweet ass," Kate muttered as she removed the major's insignia from his collar and replaced them with the general's stars. "You're crazy, you know that?"

"Coming from the reporter who fabricated a ghost story? You don't have a lot of room to talk."

"It's you," she said softly. "You make me lose my mind."

"Good. When I get back, I intend to." He pulled her in and kissed her hard. The embrace was an affirmation of everything they held between them – love, trust and hope for a future unmarred by war. He broke away and held her at arm's length. "Jim and Casey will take the boys up tomorrow, I'll meet them off the coast of Choisuel before we rendezvous with the 182nd. We'll fly the mission, I'll drop the bird back on Espritos before Atwood's boys even get there and catch a flight back here. I'm serious, Cameron, stay out of trouble until then." He winked, then turned and followed Hutch onto the waiting transport.

Kate watched him go. _Stay out of trouble? Well, if he wasn't around that ought to be a lot easier._

Tori joined her, shaking her head. Kate noticed the barely concealed worry in her eyes.

"Mental. They're both mental," Tori said, running her hands through her red blonde hair before stuffing them into pockets of her jumpsuit.

"And yet we can't get enough of them," Kate mused as the transport lumbered down the strip and lifted into the air.

Tori returned her grin.

"What's that say about us?"

Kate laughed wryly.

"Hutch looked good in TJ's uniform," she observed. " _Lieutenant_ Hutchinson cleans up nice."

Tori nodded.

" _Lieutenant_ Hutchinson doesn't know if he should be more worried he's impersonating an officer or about Greg's little caper." She sighed. "But yeah, he does clean up nice. I hardly ever get to see him like that. When we're together he's usually covered with oil or – " she hesitated and blushed prettily, " – or our clothes don't stay on long enough to notice."

"I knew you two were meant for each other the first time I saw you together," Kate recalled as they stood, watching the C-47 lift into the air.

"Oh yeah. The welcome party for the new nurses and I was three sheets in the wind," Tori recalled as they turned back toward the base. "John showed up just in the nick of time when I was about to fall on my face."

"Funny thing about those boys," Kate said, "they always show up when we need them."

Nearby, Jim shoved off the palm tree where he'd been lounging. Jogging up behind them, he pushed his way between the two girls and threw a companionable arm around their shoulders.

"And even when we don't. What do you want, Gutterman?" Kate's tone was one of resigned patience. "You're a pain in the ass."

Jim ignored her. Her continued rebuffs had long ago turned into a game they both played with a high level of mastery and mutual enjoyment.

"I know it. They'll probably give me a medal for it," he said agreeably. "I'm under direct orders from Pappy and Hutch to keep an eye on you two and make sure you stay out of trouble until they get back. How about we start with a drink?"

 **XXX**

 _I didn't argue with Jim as we headed to the Sheep Pen. I'd been over this caper a thousand times in my mind and every time I found a different way it could go wrong. Greg probably had, too, and I knew he'd have a sub-set of plans for every contingency. It made my mind spin. Now it was a matter of hurry up and wait. I wasn't going to have to wait long. As it turned out, Greg's parting order for me to stay out of trouble was going to prove impossible to follow. And it was pretty much all his fault although to hear him tell it, it was the Navy's fault. Isn't that the way it always goes? - Kate_

 **XXX**

 **Espritos Marcos**

 **Allied Rear Area**

Hutch pulled the jeep up to the three-sided guard shack near the gate to the back area of the Espritos Marcos airfield and stopped. Seated next to him, Greg gave a low whistle. Thirty yards away, behind a fence strung with barbed wire, a line of eight gleaming new Corsairs sat with their wings unfolded like birds of prey basking in the sunshine.

"Damn, those look fine," Hutch said wistfully. Greg laughed at the hungry look on his face.

"Remember, we're only browsing, not buying," he said. "Ready to do this, _Lieutenant_? Quick site recon and a meal at the officers' club, then a good night's sleep and we'll be gone in the morning before anyone knew we were here."

At least that's how he hoped it would go down. It was a shame he couldn't have found a way to bring Kate along on this trip. It was the kind of subterfuge she would profess to wanting no part of but would secretly enjoy, not to mention he hated to waste a night in a real bed without her. He'd meant it, though, when he said he didn't want her anywhere near this. This operation was crazier than a pet coon.

Hutch swallowed hard and resettled his cap. Greg noticed the mechanic's dark hair looked unusually tidy.

"Did you get a haircut?" he asked.

"Yeah. Tori worked me over last night. She said if I was going to impersonate an aide de camp to a two star general, I needed to tidy up a bit. Then she coached me on posture and – what's the word – _decorum_. She whacked me with a ruler for slouching." He groaned theatrically. "It was like being back in basic again."

"She's a good woman." Greg surveyed the planes. "You ready to do this?"

"Yes, sir, General Fraser, sir, after you, your exalted highness, sir." Hutch grinned.

"Stop it." Greg swallowed a smile and stepped out of the jeep. Hutch followed, spine straight, carrying a clipboard with an air of starched importance.

A corporal who looked like the ink wasn't dry on his enlistment papers stepped out of the guard shack. He snapped off a salute, then pivoted to block the gate.

"I'm afraid I can't let anyone past this point, sir," the young man said. In spite of his military bearing, his voice said he didn't have a lot of practice telling people what they could and could not do, especially people who out-ranked him.

"Then it's your lucky day, son," Greg returned easily. "I'm not anyone." He stuck out a hand. "I'm General Harrison Fraser from COMSOPAC, aircraft inspection detail for South Pacific Combat Air Transport Command." He paused long enough to wave a hand at Hutch. "My aide and I are here to do a walk around of these new birds at the request of Admiral Halsey."

The corporal blinked at this rapid-fire barrage of information.

"Sir, I wasn't aware the Marine Corps was sending a ground crew to inspect these planes."

"Then you'd better start paying closer attention. Do we look like a ground crew?"

"N-no, sir," the young man stuttered.

What are these?" Greg tapped the stars on his collar.

"General's stars, sir," the younger man stammered, standing a little straighter.

"That's right. You're paying closer attention already. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

The corporal threw his shoulders back and thrust his chest out so far he resembled a pigeon. Greg saw the doubt in the boy's expression and pushed his advantage.

"If a general wishes to inspect these fine machines before they're turned over to the Navy, do you think that requires clearance from some paper pusher sitting behind a desk while fine young men like you pull duty out here in the hot sun?"

The corporal's face was a study in conflict.

"But sir . . .," he protested, looking frantically around at the deserted strip as if seeking backup. None was forthcoming. "They're cleared for launch. The Navy's had their own ground crew swarming over 'em all day."

Greg lowered his voice and threw an avuncular arm around the boy's shoulder.

"Son, you know what brand new equipment is like. There are always some glitches to work out and between you and me, those Navy mechanics aren't always up to the job. We're just here to make sure the ammo is loaded. Isn't that right, Lieutenant?" He turned to Hutch.

Hutch turned a laugh into a cough and forced a serious expression over his features.

"Yessir, General." He tapped the clipboard impatiently and looked at his watch. "Sir, you have a meeting with General Moore in 30 minutes, so we need to get on with this inspection. He'll be expecting a report."

Greg turned to the corporal and smoothed the final icing on the cake.

"It's not like I'm going to take one up for a ride and not bring it back."

The boy relaxed visibly, having come to a conclusion.

"No, sir. Yes, sir. You're right, sir." He looked around the deserted airfield a final time, then stepped back. "All right, sir, go ahead."

"Thank you, Corporal. You have a fine understanding of cooperation."

If Corporal Ronald Denning thought it strange that a two star Marine Corps general would come to inspect planes destined for a Navy carrier, he kept it to himself. One thing he'd learned in this war was that it never paid to draw attention to anything unless it was on fire or trying to shoot you.

 **XXX**

Greg forced himself to adopt a leisurely pace as he strolled down the line of planes. The afternoon sun sparkled off their gleaming paint and the pristine glass of their canopies. Nothing was sagging or leaking or held together with baling wire. There was no need for the familiar clutter of ladders and repair equipment or parts scattered on tarps under half-pulled cowlings. They damn near _smelled_ new. Next to him, Hutch had a rapturous look on his face. Greg caught his eye and they exchanged grins.

For the 214's entire existence, the squadron had flown birds that were a testament to Chance Vought's design – heavy, rough fighters that could absorb a lot of damage and still get the pilot home safely. Their planes had seen action long before the Black Sheep climbed into the cockpits and while they were the workhorses of the Southwest Pacific, none of them shone with polished gleam of these beauties.

Greg stopped and made an idle observation about the fine young men who were chosen to fly these machines. He spoke loudly enough he was sure the guard could hear it, then moved on down the line, pausing to gesticulate here and there for effect. Hutch nodded vigorously and pretended to make notes on the clipboard. When they reached the end of the line, both men dropped the fake personas.

"This one," Greg said, slapping the leading edge of number 403's starboard wing. "She's closest to the strip and furthest from the hangars. The fewer eyes, the better." He looked over his shoulder then gestured to Hutch. "I was serious about checking the ammo load. I don't trust those Navy mechanics any more than you do."

Hutch rounded the plane's port side so the airframe's bulk blocked the vision of anyone who might be looking. Springing easily onto the wing, he pulled out his pocket knife and deftly loosened the plate covering the magazine that fed the Corsair's gunports. He flashed Greg a thumbs up.

"Good to go, Pappy. Locked and loaded."

He replaced the plate, then jumped back down to the tarmac and judged the distance to the row of hangars.

"Once you're in the air tomorrow morning, I can circle back around, then slip out and wait to catch a transport back to La Cava. What are you going to tell the tower when you take off early?"

Greg ran his fingers along the plane's fuselage. Even with the 2,000 horsepower engine silent, it radiated deadly power. The sleek curve of the wing held a wicked allure, an almost erotic power that beckoned like a mistress. Not a blemish marred the sleek paint.

"Casey's already got the flight plan filed. I believe Commander Atwood has developed a sudden desire to take his new bird up for an early check ride tomorrow morning," he grinned. "All the way to Choisuel."

 **XXX**

"We're not going to run into Colonel Lard, are we?" Hutch parked the jeep in front of the officers' club.

Greg paused to remove the general's stars and replace them with his major's insignia. The bartenders here knew him. Not that they'd do anything except raise their eyebrows but he didn't see the point in pushing his luck. It was stretched to the breaking point already.

"Kate's story should have Lard so occupied with finding a priest to sprinkle holy water over his office he won't be able to think about anything else. Relax, we'll enjoy our dinner and call it an early night."

Hutch shook his head.

"You make it sound so easy. I'd rather overhaul TJ's engine than talk my way past that guard again. How'd you get so good at that?"

Greg chuckled.

"I've had a few more years to more practice than you. Let's go have a drink."

It was early and the club was sparsely populated. A table of off-duty MPs and a couple of white-uniformed Navy ensigns were the only other occupants. The men took a corner table and ordered whiskies.

"The hard part's over," Greg said quietly. "Number 403's in perfect position. You borrowed a flight suit from TJ, right?" Hutch nodded the affirmative. "There'll be a different guard on duty in the morning so we won't need to worry about being recognized. Nobody'll look twice at a couple of pilots reporting to the field early. We can do the pre-flight and I'll have her in the air and gone before anyone knows we're there. The tower isn't going to question Commander Atwood taking his new bird up." Well, they probably would, since Atwood wasn't supposed to be there until much later in the day, but Greg was confident he could bullshit his way through that. It wouldn't be the first time.

Hutch leaned back in his chair and looked around at the room's comfortable furnishings.

"This is nice."

"You need to get out more." Greg laughed at Hutch's expression. The mechanic's workaholic tendencies were well-known and he rarely got involved in the Black Sheep's reckless high jinks, either on La Cava or when the boys took R and R. Greg thought the arrival of Tori Bishop and her unexpected impact on Hutch's life had been the best thing that could have happened to him.

"What do you suppose the girls are doing without us tonight?" Hutch mused.

Greg sipped his whisky.

"Kate's either down on the beach throwing sticks for Meatball or she's on the base, throwing sticks at someone. I told Jim to keep an eye on her. That girl's a lightning rod for trouble."

Hutch snorted.

"Tori's working an overnight shift. She said it was better if she stayed busy and didn't think about what we were doing."

The two men enjoyed a quiet meal and were preparing to leave when the ensigns' conversation at the adjoining table caught Greg's ear.

"You see those new birds out on the field?"

"The Corsairs? Yeah, they're beauties. Too bad they're for Atwood's boys."

The other man snorted derisively.

"Atwood's boys couldn't handle a flying carpet. They'll all end up in the drink."

"At least they're going to the Navy, not those damned Marines." The speaker paused. "You ever see the scrap heaps some of those Marine units fly? I was on the strip a few weeks back when a few of the boys from the Black Sheep landed." He glanced at Greg, making it a point of raking his eyes over the khaki USMC uniform. "I don't know how they can be that good, their birds all look like they've got one landing gear in the boneyard."

"Amen, brother. Marines," the other man scoffed. The two officers cast deliberate looks at Greg and Hutch and exchanged a hearty laugh.

"Let it go," Hutch warned as Greg pushed back his chair and stood. "Just ignore 'em. We got bigger fish to fry here."

"Can't imagine what kind of half-assed mechanics they got, either," the second man continued. "Can't be anyone with an ounce of pride, to turn wrenches on crap heaps like those."

"Awwww hell no!" Hutch snarled. He pushed his chair back and went shoulder to shoulder with Greg. "One more crack like that and I'll drop a pill down their stack myself."

"I thought you said we had bigger fish to fry." Greg arched an eyebrow at his mechanic.

"I decided I don't like fish."

Greg and Hutch approached the ensigns' table with studied casualness. The white uniformed men looked up in mock surprise and snickered.

"Looky what we got here - a couple of Marine pilots. You get stranded? Your planes finally fall apart and you couldn't find any baling wire to patch them back together?" one of them asked, his voice dripping with derision.

"You boys ever tangle with a squadron of angry Zeros?" Greg crossed his arms. "Keeping the fenders waxed and buffed isn't a high priority."

"Maybe if you were better shots, you wouldn't need to get so close."

"If I want advice about a dog fight, I'll ask someone who can figure out how to land on their own carrier without waiting for the Royal Navy to work it out for them." Greg's voice was cold steel.

That hit a nerve. The first man shoved his chair back hard enough it tipped over.

"The Marines so desperate they're letting old men fly their planes now?"

"Who are you calling old, son?" Greg's face was an inscrutable mask. A wiser man would have seen the hard clench of his jaw and backed down but the white-coated lieutenant was one drink past wise.

"What are you gonna do about it, gramps? Take a swing at me?"

Greg's peripheral vision saved him. He had only a second's warning to duck the blow the second man launched. The man missed but Greg didn't. He spun and dropped the first assailant with a sharp jab to the gut, then traded punches with the second ensign. When the first man staggered to his feet, Hutch stepped in front of him.

"Who are you?" The man looked startled.

"I'm one of those half-assed mechanics without an ounce of pride." He laid the man out with a hard right.

With their backs turned, neither Greg nor Hutch saw the six Navy MPs rise from the nearby table.

 **XXX**

Fifteen minutes later, the door to the cell block at the Espritos Marcos Naval Brig clanged shut with metallic finality.

"Damnit." Hutch slumped on the cot bolted to one wall and studied his bloodied knuckles.

"Didn't see that coming." Greg leaned back against the bars and closed his eyes. While he'd never been one to care about the odds, eight to two seemed rather unfair even though several of those boys were going to wake up in a world of hurt tomorrow morning.

"What the hell are we gonna do now?" Hutch's voice was muffled. His face was buried in his hands. "Sorry, Greg, if I hadn't slugged that guy maybe – "

Greg pushed off the bars and paced the length of the cell.

"Don't worry about it. It was already too late by the time you flattened him. I'll figure out something. Right now, just say your prayers Lard doesn't get wind of this. His smiling face is the last thing I want to see."

 **XXX**

 _If everything had gone right, we still would have needed a miracle to pull this off. Now we needed twice as many miracles – one to get us out of the brig and another to get me into that plane in time to rendezvous for tomorrow's mission. I had no idea where either one was going to come from. Nobody knew we were stuck in here and the only person who was likely to be notified was the last person I wanted to find out. – Greg_

 **XXX**

In his office, Colonel Thomas Lard leaned back in his chair with a tumbler of Scotch in one hand and shook out the afternoon edition of the _Daily Bugle_. He sighed contentedly as he looked at the clock on the wall. He had plenty of time to relax with the _Bugle_ before meeting General Moore and Commander Atwood for a late dinner in the officer's club. Atwood and some of his pilots from VF 118 weren't supposed to arrive until tomorrow to take possession of the recently delivered Corsairs but they'd come in early to beat a pending weather system. Lard's secretary had notified him the Commander and Moore would be dining together and invited him to join them. He'd heard rumblings, too, that Atwood's boys were to accompany the Black Sheep as they flew cover for the 182nd on tomorrow's mission but that hadn't been confirmed. Or if it had, nobody had bothered to notify him.

Shame the 118 didn't have a better combat record, Lard mused. Shame those planes couldn't have gone to a Marine unit instead but with his luck, they'd end up at the 214. He was too much of a patriot to say he deliberately wanted Boyington's band of pirates to fail but he wasn't going out of his way to help them succeed, either. He was this close to catching them unable to meet the bare requirement for maintaining combat status. This close.

Lard's eyes fell on the headline of the story above the fold and he sputtered, spraying Scotch across his desk blotter. All thoughts of the Black Sheep, new planes and dinner flew out of his mind.

" _PARANORMAL ACTIVITY REPORTED ON ESPRITOS MARCOS!_ " the bold print headline roared.

What the hell was this? He automatically checked the byline. It had become a habit since K.C. Cameron had been posted to the 214 and his articles tended to splash the Black Sheep across the front page at every opportunity. The byline read _Ford Appleton, Associated Press._ Lard didn't know him. At least it wasn't Cameron. This was exactly the kind of unsettling tripe that fellow would write.

Lard read further into the story, his lips moving until he was reading aloud with increasing disbelief.

" _. . . sightings of apparitions. . . . malfunctioning electronics and other mysterious phenomena, flat tires on vehicles, unexplained fires. . . small objects have been observed moving of their own accord . . . breeching a sacred site . . . the area under the structure housing a number of administrative offices, including the office of Colonel Thomas Lard and his staff . . . human remains . . . offices will be moved to quarters . . . near the camp dump . . . A Seabee unit will commence with the excavation 24 hours from today . . . fire ceremony to appease the spirits . . ."_

Lard slammed the paper down in disgust. What a crock of malarkey. Paranormal activity? A busy Navy yard and airbase wouldn't tolerate ghosts. He ought to get hold of this Ford Appleton and give him a piece of his mind. The _Bugle_ needed to screen their correspondents a little more closely so crackpot gibberish like this didn't take up the front page.

Wait.

Two days ago, the jeep he'd picked up at the motor pool had mysteriously refused to start when he was already late for a meeting. When he'd tried to contact the 214 yesterday, the scrambler hadn't worked. Of course, the 214's scrambler never worked. Only this time, it had been the unit right here in his office that malfunctioned. And a bottle of ink he swore he'd left on his desk had mysteriously disappeared, only to be found – spilled – atop a stack of maps on the other side of his office. Haunts? Human remains under his office? Being relocated by the dump? He would _not_ be relocated by the dump!

That was ridiculous. Of all the things he had to think about – the damned Japanese, the damned Black Sheep, damned Boyington insisting he was putting 15 planes up on every mission when they both knew he wasn't – he didn't have time for this tom-foolery. And now they were going to send a Seabee company to demolish his office so they could excavate? What the hell? Just what the hell?

He glared at the floor as if he could see through the layers of cement into the dirt below. There'd better not be any remains interred there. He didn't care if they were humans or hedgehogs. The thought made him distinctly uneasy. He lifted his feet off the floor. He looked at his watch. It was after 1800. He'd call his contact in the press office tomorrow and get to the bottom of this. This was exactly the sort of thing that caused unrest among the men. There was no reference to the paranormal in the Marine Corps Manual.

And who the hell was this Appleton fellow? The guy was probably buddies with K.C. Cameron. That was another thing he needed to get to the bottom of. K.C. Cameron had been on La Cava for four months and Lard still hadn't met the man although he'd certainly dealt with the fallout from his stories. He was starting to dislike the press corps as thoroughly as Boyington, although by all appearances, Boyington was getting along just fine with Cameron. After his initial protests, Lard hadn't heard any further complaints from him about the embedded correspondent.

Lard yanked open a desk drawer and pullout out a notepad. Mumbling to himself, he began writing. "Call _Bugle_ office in a.m., set up meeting with Appleton, want to know his sources . . . double check with Seabee company upon arrival, no excavation without my express permission . . ." Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Sir?" Margaret, his frighteningly efficient secretary, stuck her head through the door. She held a memo from the warden at the Espritos Marcos brig in one hand. "This just came for you from - "

His thoughts occupied by what might be lurking beneath his feet, Lard jumped.

"Not now, Margaret!" he roared, cutting her off. "I don't have time for anything else right now! Can't you see I'm in the middle of . . . of . . . this!" he sputtered, shaking the notebook. At her confused expression, he picked up the newspaper and shook it so violently several pages flew out. "Hold my calls. Don't interrupt me! Wait! Where are you going?"

"You asked me not to interrupt you, sir."

"Well, yes, never mind. Call General Moore and tell him I won't be joining him for dinner this evening. Tell him I'm . . . indisposed."

He certainly looked it, Margaret thought. His face had gone an alarming shade of puce and the vein in his temple throbbed alarmingly.

"Can I bring you anything, sir? Maybe an aspirin powder?"

"No. Just don't disturb me. I need peace and quiet to . . . to work some things out."

"Yes, sir."

She closed the door and dropped the warden's memo into a wire basket atop a small table nearby. If her boss didn't want to know Major Boyington and one of the Black Sheep had just been hauled into the brig on charges of drunk and disorderly, that wasn't her problem. Normally, that was the sort of thing that would have delighted him but clearly he had other things on his mind. She returned to her desk and picked up the phone to cancel the colonel's dinner plans with General Moore.

She was talking with Moore's secretary when a bicycle courier blew into the office on a whirlwind of khaki, his face flushed with perspiration and importance. He brandished a sheaf of reports.

"The latest intel on Japanese troop movements for Colonel Lard, ma'am. I was told to deliver these ASAP."

Cupping a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, Margaret whispered, "Colonel Lard doesn't want to be disturbed but you can leave them in the basket by the door."

"Yes, ma'am."

The youth dropped the files into the basket, covering the warden's memo. As he turned to leave, Margaret's pencil rolled off her desk. Still clutching the telephone receiver in one hand, she stood and bent to retrieve it, giving Corporal Lance Olson a first-rate view of her shapely backside and silk stocking-clad legs. Olson paused, taking a step back to admire the view, and his courier bag bumped the wire basket atop the table, spilling it into the trash bin. Without taking his eyes from the secretary's lovely backside, he scooped the files out of the trash and hastily shoved them back into the basket.

The warden's memo remained, upside down and unnoticed, among the detritus in the bin.

At 1830, the janitorial detail trooped through Lard's now deserted office, sweeping the floors and taking out the day's trash.

 **XXX**

 _I fell asleep that afternoon thinking about Greg. Nothing new there. Everything he was doing on Espritos was for the Black Sheep. And for me, although neither of us said it. Keeping the squadron together meant keeping us together. Our current way of life wasn't ideal but it was all we had and I knew if push came to shove, we would do anything we could to make sure we kept it. I just didn't know what "anything" was going to include. – Kate_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Staying out of trouble**

 **Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ**

Kate learned shortly after her arrival on La Cava that the sweltering heat of the afternoon provided an ideal excuse to grab extra rack time. With the exception of the mechanics who seemed to work around the clock, the base often dozed during midday, only to come alive again once the sun passed its zenith. She was sprawled on her bunk, out like a light, when Casey careened into her tent without bothering to knock.

"Kate! Katie! _KATIE_! Wake up! We got trouble!"

She pushed hair out of her face and sat up, still muddled with sleep. Beyond the mosquito netting, the base lay quiet. Peril didn't seem imminent.

"What are you talking about?" she yawned.

"Greg's in the brig on Espritos. Hutch, too."

That woke her up in a hurry. She stared at Casey. The young exec's usually calm features were distorted with agitation and his pale blonde hair stood on end. Kate blinked and looked at her watch.

"How in God's name did they manage that – they've only been gone four hours." Her tone was incredulous. "That's got to be some kind of record. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Casey ran a hand through his hair. He looked like he might start pulling it out. "A buddy of mine works in the supply depot. He was walking over for his shift when he saw the MPs taking Pappy and Hutch into the brig. He called me cuz he figured I'd want to know. There was some kind of dust up in the officers' club with a couple of Navy guys. Imagine that." He slumped onto Kate's desk chair, looking miserable. "Here." He picked up the porcelain mug he'd set on her desk and held it out to her. "I brought you coffee. Greg always says it's a good idea to bring you coffee if he has to wake you up."

Kate imitated Casey, dragging her hand through her own hair. She reached out and took the mug from him. The contents were wickedly dark and she knew without tasting it, they'd been on the burner for hours. She took a cautious sip anyway and felt the liquid began wiping away the cobwebs of sleep.

"Thanks. Some kind of dust up in the officers' club?" she muttered. "And he had the balls to tell _me_ to stay out of trouble."

"It gets worse," Casey said morosely.

"Worse? How can it get worse? How is he going to borrow a plane tomorrow if he's sitting in the brig?"

"He'll probably be out by tomorrow morning. They never hold us longer than overnight on drunk and disorderly."

Kate noted with wry amusement that Casey made this pronouncement with the casual tone of experience.

"So what's the problem," she said, confused. "If he's out by tomorrow, they can still -"

Casey cut her off.

"The mission schedule's been moved up. The Black Sheep go up at 0700 to rendezvous with the 182nd, not at 1100 like was originally planned."

Kate stared at him, a clock spinning in her head. Even if Greg and Hutch were released without further adieu, they wouldn't be processed out until mid-morning at the earliest. With the change in the schedule, Greg needed to lift off from Espritos by 0600 to join the Black Sheep. There was no way he'd be released by then.

As if reading her mind, Casey continued, "And that's not all."

Kate braced herself with another sip of coffee. What the hell else could go wrong?

"What do you mean? Isn't that enough?"

"Fleet is expecting heavy resistance on this one and ordered VF 118 to join the Black Sheep on the mission."

Between the coffee and Casey's news, any lingering vestiges of sleep vanished abruptly. Kate stared at him.

"118? Isn't that the Navy squadron who's picking up the new planes?"

"Yeah. No." Casey hastily corrected himself. "Not the whole squadron, just the boys who'll already be on Espritos to pick up their birds. They'll lift off from the airfield there at 0600 to account for the added travel time to rendezvous with us and the 182nd."

Kate let the impact of his words sink in. She finished the coffee, feeling the bitter, half-burned liquid coiling through her veins.

"The 118 will be gone with the planes before Greg's even released." Casey buried his head in his hands. "We're screwed. With Greg still under hack, we'll end up flying the mission with 14 planes and that'll be the end of us. Lard will break us up and toss us in the pilot's pool before the sun goes down tomorrow night."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Kate jammed her feet into her boots and tied the laces with fast, hard movements.

"Not if I have anything to say about it." She paced a circle around the tent's limited space then stopped. "Have you told Jim?"

"No. I was going to wake him up next."

"Don't. He'll go off half-cocked and then we'll have more trouble than we've already got." While she appreciated Jim Gutterman's willingness to charge headlong into whatever trouble presented itself, the present situation called for more finesse and less brawn.

She flipped open her footlocker and yanked out an unwrinkled shirt. Turning her back on Casey, she jerked her sleep-rumpled T-shirt over her head. She heard him yelp in surprise but had the clean shirt on and buttoned before he could protest.

Her fingers moved automatically, smoothing her hair into a braid as she organized her thoughts. She needed to get to Espritos. A month ago, she'd BS'd her way through an unexpected and uncomfortable dinner with Colonel Lard in the officers' club. The evening had included an extended discussion about K.C. Cameron's writing style without the Colonel being any the wiser for who he was dining with. If she could come up with an excuse to get to the rear area base and into the brig, she was sure she could fast talk her way to springing both men. Keeping the 118 from picking up their birds earlier than planned was a separate problem but she'd deal with that later. One crisis at a time. She resumed pacing, then spun to face Casey, hands on her hips, eyes blazing as an idea took shape.

"Can you get a transport out here ASAP for an emergency medical evac?"

"Yeah," Casey said slowly. "What are you thinking?"

"Do it. Tori and I are taking TJ to Espritos. I don't know what's wrong with him yet but we'll figure it out on the way. Go!"

Casey grinned, clearly relieved that someone had a plan of action even if it sounded a little shaky, and bolted out of her tent. Kate pulled a satchel from under her bunk and started tossing clothing and toiletries into it.

 _Damnit, Boyington._ She loved that man but he was nothing but trouble. She'd thought his plan to borrow a plane from the Navy was insane. It made perfect sense in comparison to what she had in mind.

 **XXX**

 _If I'd had any idea the amount of crazy I was about to dive into, I might have thought things through a little better. Sometimes, you've just got to go with your gut. – Kate_

 **XXX**

TJ was sprawled on his stomach, sound asleep. Abandoning any pretense of etiquette, Kate marched into the tent and slapped him on the butt.

"Get up," she said without preamble. "I need you."

TJ rolled over and sleepily pushed up on his elbows. His face lit up with a boyish grin.

"I can't say I haven't dreamed about this, Katie," he said, "but what's Greg going to say?"

She returned his grin in spite of the situation.

"We won't tell him," she said archly. "Get dressed, you're going to Espritos with me."

TJ rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

"I can't go on R and R, we've got a mission to fly tomorrow."

"This isn't going to be R and R, trust me. I'll explain when we're in the air. Besides, you're still off the flight roster. Meet me on the strip in an hour. Bring a change of clothes and your lock picks. You're going to be masquerading as injured personnel in need of further medical treatment."

"Shouldn't be too hard." TJ winced as he swung his legs off the bunk. "I'm still banged up from getting splashed."

"And grab some mechanics' jumpsuits and hats – one for yourself and two for me and Tori."

TJ stared at her. His expression indicated she'd lost her mind.

"Make sure they're clean," she added. If she was going to launch full-tilt into this crazy plan, she wasn't going to do it in dirty clothes.

"What are you up to, darlin'?" Jim said groggily from the other bunk. "I always thought if you strayed off the reservation, you'd take me up on my standing offer."

"Shut up," she said, rolling her eyes. "This is an emergency and I need you not to fly off the handle and do something half-assed. Casey will fill you in but promise me you'll stay on LaCava and take the squadron up tomorrow."

That brought Jim full awake. He lunged for his boots.

"What happened to Greg?"

"He and Hutch are in the brig – damnit – what did I say!" Kate crossed the tent in two strides and shoved him hard back onto his bunk before he could stand up. "I've got a plan. Stay here and stay frosty."

Jim looked at her, shaking his head.

"God, you're a bossy woman. I can't imagine Greg lets you tell him what to do when you're . . ." He left the sentence unfinished, deliberately baiting her.

"I wouldn't know. I've never had to tell him what to do." She turned on her heel and left.

 **XXX**

 _There were times I would have happily throttled any of those boys with my bare hands but when push came to shove, I knew they'd have my six. Casey was calling in an emergency medical evac, TJ was packing and getting supplies and Jim agreed to keep the Black Sheep in line. The rest was going to be up to me and Tori. - Kate_

 **XXX**

Greg's tent was two dozen yards away from Jim and TJ's. Kate pushed through the netting and looked around at the comfortable masculine clutter. Meatball was stretched out on the bunk. He thumped his tail in welcome.

"He's done it this time," she said, scratching the dog's head. "I don't suppose you know how to get him out of this mess?"

Meatball didn't.

"Fine. I'll just have to make it up as I go along."

Meatball watched her with interest.

"You're no help, you know that?"

The dog rolled belly up.

"Typical male. I don't have time to rub your belly." She surveyed the tent and grumbled, "If you want something done around here, get the war correspondent do it. That needs to be this damn place's motto."

She yanked open Greg's footlocker, still muttering.

" _Cameron, go to Espritos and blackmail Sergeant Overton to get our engine oil._ Well, he did make that worth my time. _"_ She rifled through neat stacks of clean clothes. _"Sit there on my bed with half your clothes off and be my alibi while Colonel Lard accuses me of breaking into his office._ " She bit back a smile at the memory and addressed the dog. "The night went pretty well after that."

" _Cameron, write a story to distract Lard while I'm stealing a plane._ Oh yeah. I wrote the story then he went and got arrested and now it's back in my lap. He is so gonna pay for this." She pulled out a clean flight suit and shook her head when she saw two bottles of Scotch and box of condoms under it. God. That man. What she wouldn't do for him.

She grabbed a mae west from where it had been slung over the back of a chair and pulled his boots out from under his bunk. _"Cameron, come bail my ass out of the brig_. He has no idea how much he's going to pay for this." Her face twisted into a reluctant smile. Meatball thumped his tail in approval.

Four minutes after she'd gone in, Kate left the tent, the mae west over her shoulder, the flight suit, helmet, goggles in one arm and boots dangling from the other, her jaw set in determination.

 **XXX**

Kate pulled the jeep to a halt in a cloud of dust and raced up the hospital's front steps. She yanked open the door and forced herself to walk quietly through the entry. Relief washed through her when she saw Tori and Dee at the nurses' station.

"We've got a problem."

Keeping an eye out for Lieutenant Commander Delmonte, the battle axe of a hospital matron, Kate sketched out the situation. Tori and Dee listened without interrupting.

"It's up to us to get them out." Kate took a deep breath. "I have an idea."

"Oh God, you're as bad as he is." Dee shook her head. "Casey always says every time Greg says that, they end up doing something crazy."

"Good, then you're used to it," Kate said briskly. "Casey's called the transport back for an emergency medical evac. Tori, you and I and TJ are going to be on it when it takes off in half an hour."

The strawberry blonde's big blue eyes widened.

"Me? How can I help?"

"If Greg isn't in the cockpit of one of those new Corsairs by 0530 tomorrow, the shit's gonna hit the fan. I think we can make it happen. I'll explain on the way."

"You _think_?" Tori hissed, looking over her shoulder. "But I'm supposed to be on duty until 2200. What'll I tell Delmonte?"

"Go," Dee said without pausing. "I'll cover for you."

"How? You know she'll demand an accounting."

"You've got a migraine," Dee improvised quickly. "Or malaria. Or cramps. Maybe all three. You look a little peaked."

"I feel a little peaked." Tori swallowed hard and looked at Kate. "What do you want me to do?"

"Put on a field uniform but pack a civilian dress and shoes," Kate said as Tori started toward the door to the nurses' quarters. "Something, I dunno, flirty."

"Flirty?"

"Yeah. Something that shows off your boobs."

"Seriously, Kate?" Tori's hand flew to the anatomy in question, as if to confirm their importance.

"Seriously. We're going to use every asset we've got," Kate said firmly. "And tell Laura I'll be there in 10 minutes to borrow her uniform again."

"Roger that. I know she keeps one on standby for any, um, emergencies you might have." Tori vanished through the ward door, headed to the nurses' quarters.

In the last several months, Kate had borrowed the uniform twice from Dee and Tori's fellow nurse, Lieutenant Laura Halvorson, who shared Kate's height and build. Once, she'd worn it to blackmail a condescending and suspicious but reluctantly cooperative Army supply sergeant. Another time, she'd carried off the masquerade in order to accompany the Black Sheep to Espritos for R and R. She found the uniform allowed her to move around the rear area base with a degree of anonymity she couldn't have dreamed of as a civilian.

Kate turned back to Dee.

"I'm going to need some medical transfer authorization forms."

Dee didn't miss a beat, as if war correspondents rushing into the hospital, demanding personnel go AWOL and asking for access to restricted military documents was an everyday occurrence.

"Delmonte has all that paperwork in the file drawer by her desk. I'd guess they're filed under T for transfer but she guards them like a dragon sitting on a clutch of eggs. And she's been sequestered in her office all day."

"We need a distraction to get her out of there." Kate spun on her heel and pointed at a patient watching the exchange with interest from a nearby bed. A splint on one arm marked him as mobile and not grievously wounded. She turned the full wattage of her smile on him. "How would you like to help the Black Sheep?"

The man grinned.

"Anything for the Corps, ma'am. What can I do for you?"

"Have you ever chased a South Pacific dump rat?" Kate asked. "Because I believe there's one sitting right under that chair and I do declare, those varmints just give me the vapors." She flung an arm dramatically across her forehead and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Lieutenant Ronald O'Malley had studied theater before joining up with the Marines two years ago. He grinned. It would feel good to be back on stage again, even if the stage was largely non-existent. So was the rat.

He sprung out of bed and into his role.

 **XXX**

Lieutenant Commander Beatrice Delmonte's head snapped up from her paperwork at the first scream.

"Oh my God, how did that thing get in here? Get it out!" A feminine shriek echoed down the hall.

"I'll get it, ma'am! Out of my way!" a masculine voice resounded.

"Oooooh! Be careful! Don't let it bite you!"

"There it goes! It's under that bed now! Hand me that broom!"

A crash resounded as a chair was overturned.

With a scowl on her face and a pen clenched in her right hand like a weapon, Delmonte shoved back from her desk and barreled into the ward.

"What is going on here?" She had to shout to be heard over the din as other patients joined in the charade. Lieutenant O'Malley swung the broom, narrowly missing Delmonte's nose and sending a bedpan crashing to the floor. In the ensuing chaos, no one noticed Kate slip quietly down the hall and step into the recently vacated office. The forms were, indeed, filed under T for transfer. A minute later, she was out again, the paperwork secured neatly on a clipboard and the extra set of collar insignia Delmonte kept in her desk tucked into the pocket of her shorts.

As she made her way down the hall, the last thing she heard was, "Don't you worry none, Lieutenant Commander, I won't let that rat run up your stockings!" Another resounding crash swallowed up any reply.

 **XXX**

Thirty minutes later, Jim and Casey carried the stretcher holding TJ's blanket covered form onto the C-47. The young pilot's head and half his face were swaddled in bandages and he groaned pathetically. Kate and Tori, both in Navy nurse's uniforms, fawned over him, making sure the stretcher was secured and taking his pulse until the corpsman pushed the door shut and the transport lumbered down the airstrip.

Kate poked him in the ribs.

"Okay. Get up."

"Hey!" he protested. "I really am injured, you know."

She looked at him doubtfully.

"You brought your lock picks, didn't you? And the mechanics' jumpsuits? And you're sure you can get us through the gates onto the airfield?"

TJ's eyes widened in hurt innocence. His gaze swung from Kate to Tori and back.

"Of course! I can get you anywhere on Espritos you want to go. But geez, you girls just want me for my skills."

Kate leaned over and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"We love you, TJ," she said. "Your skill with lock picks is the stuff of legend."

He looked slightly appeased.

"They're not exactly picks, more like a couple of hair pins and a pocket knife. Where exactly am I going to be picking locks? I'm guessing you're not breaking into the nurses' quarters."

The transport went airborne with a stomach-clenching lurch that left Kate squeezing her eyes closed and gripping TJ's shoulder harder than necessary. He yelped.

"Oh. Sorry. I hate flying," she muttered and released him. "The back entrance to the airfield. We're not going to be able to just march in there like we own it."

"Um, Kate," Tori began. "What about the brig? Do you plan on marching in there like you own it?"

"Maybe."

"You're making this up as you go along, aren't you?" Tori said, narrowing her eyes.

"Maybe." Kate chewed her lower lip and looked at her watch. "Even if they had a ground crew checking out those new birds today, they're done by now. It's after hours - no one's going to mess with them again until the 118 gets ready to go up. Even with the bumped up mission schedule, they won't be on the airfield before 0600 tomorrow. That gives us plenty of time to make sure only one of those planes will lift off and Greg's in it by 0530. Any later than that, there's gonna be pilots and crew all over the field."

Tori fluttered a hand in confusion.

"Wait. Back up. Only one of the planes will lift off? That sounds like you're going to make sure the other seven won't."

Kate pushed at a rogue curl bent on escaping its confinement.

"We'll have to do something to ground the other planes. I don't know what but it's not going to do any good to get Greg in the air if the rest of the 118 will be right behind him." She waved her hand absently. "Let me think about this."

TJ and Tori exchanged a look that said _she's nuts._ Kate pointedly ignored them.

"I wish we could spring the guys tonight but I don't think that's going to work. They'll just have to cool their heels in the brig until tomorrow morning."

"They'll be fine," TJ assured her cheerfully. "Won't be the first time."

 **XXX**

 _As the transport set down on Espritos an hour later, I realized when it came to this degree of deception, I was a complete amateur. But I hadn't spent four months with the Black Sheep for nothing. - Kate_

 **XXX**

The heavy, rusted lock securing the chain on the back gate of the airfield released with a click that sounded disproportionately loud in the silence. TJ straightened and closed the thin blade of the pocket knife. He tucked it and a carefully honed hair pin back into the pocket of his mechanic's coverall.

"You've got magic hands, TJ," Kate said as she eased the hasp through the heavy chain links, careful to keep them from clanging against the metal gateposts.

"I always dreamed of you telling me that, Kate," he muttered. "But somehow it didn't look quite like this. I hope you two know what you're doing." He glanced around. There wasn't a soul in sight. It was 45 minutes after sunset, the soft twilight slipping into true darkness. "Greg and Hutch will kill me if anything happens to you girls and I could have stopped it."

"Thanks, TJ." Tori squeezed his hand. "We couldn't have done it without you. Go have a drink, we'll take it from here."

"Please, please, please stay out of trouble," Kate whispered. "I'm not sure I have the right paperwork to spring the guys, let alone you, too."

"Don't worry, I'll behave. And I never saw you here." TJ grinned and disappeared.

The girls slipped through the gate and pushed it closed. They edged along the side of a massive hangar, their dark mechanics' jumpsuits blending into the shadows. Kate's sun-streaked curls and Tori's strawberry blonde locks were tucked discreetly under caps. The taller of the two, Tori wore the coverall with the style and grace of a runway model. Kate had needed to cuff up the legs and arms. Neither girl had snugged up the belts, creating androgynous outlines that hid their curves. Not that they planned on being seen. The field was deserted this time of night. As they neared the first plane, Kate ducked under the wing to the shadows of the starboard side.

"We'll start with this one," she whispered.

"Start doing what?" Tori whispered back.

"We have to do something to keep them on the ground in the morning. I'm going to pull the main switch." Kate was glad her voice sounded more confident than she felt.

"The _what_?"

"The main switch. It's in the cockpit. I saw Hutch do it once, it's kind of like a great big sparkplug."

Tori sputtered.

"You saw John – once – for God's sake, Kate, do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"I know exactly what I'm doing. This is what happens when you fall in love with one of the Black Sheep. You do crazy shit like this. Now give me a leg up," Kate hissed, "and keep an eye out for MPs. This is a restricted area but I don't know if they patrol it regularly at night. These planes are the only things back here."

"What are we going to tell them if we get caught?"

"We're not going to get caught," Kate said through clenched teeth. "Bad decisions make good stories, just remember that in 20 years. What are you laughing at?"

"You! You're a certified lunatic! It's pitch dark. How can you see what you're doing?"

"I do some of my best work in the dark."

Tori groaned theatrically and Kate flashed a grin.

"Don't tell me you haven't done some spectacular work when you couldn't see what you were doing. Come on, give me a leg up."

Tori cupped her hands and Kate stepped in. With Tori bracing her, Kate scrambled onto the plane's wing, then stretched for the cockpit. Fumbling in the dark for the foothold, she slipped, catching herself with muffled swearwords.

"Are you okay?" Tori asked from the ground. Concern gave an edge to her words.

"I'm fine." Kate caught her breath and glanced down. Tori's face was pale in the shadows. "Don't look so worried."

"It's my job when I'm around you! Hurry!"

Cursing the engineers who'd designed the plane for men with much longer legs than hers, Kate stretched to pull herself up to the canopy. She found the latch and eased it back. It slid silently on a well-oiled track.

She leaned into the cockpit, marveling at the shiny newness of the aircraft. It even smelled new, with none of the ingrained sweat, nerves and adrenaline the Black Sheep's war-torn birds seemed to be steeped in. By contrast, the leather covering the seat was unblemished, the glass in the canopy, unmarred. The paint of the body gleamed in the dim light. It was almost too pretty to be a lethal weapon.

Putting that out of her mind, Kate ran her left hand along and under the right side of the main control panel. She bit her lip in concentration as her fingers traced unseen components. Everything was new and snug and damnably immobile, not the half-falling-apart condition she was used to with the 214's planes.

"Kate!" Tori hissed from what seemed like miles away. "Someone's coming."

Kate snapped her head up. A jeep with two men in it rounded the corner of the main hangar and started toward them. A security detail. Just their luck.

"Bloody. Fucking. Hell." Kicking her foot out of the toehold, she braced both hands on the edge of the cockpit, lowered herself as far as she could, then dropped to the ground. The beam of a flashlight cut crazy patterns through the darkness as the passenger in the jeep played it over building's facade.

"There, behind those fuel tanks by the building. Go!" Kate whispered. She and Tori dove under the plane's belly as the jeep drew closer. Kate flattened herself to the ground and combat rolled toward the safety of the shadows, Tori right behind her. Regaining her feet, Kate reached down to grab Tori's arm but the Navy nurse pulled away.

"My hat!"

"Tor – no!"

"This mop stands out like a candle!" Tori hissed, waving a hand at her hair. Even in the dim light, her red-blonde curls gleamed. Quick as a cat, she darted back and snatched up the cap. She jammed it onto her head and the girls smashed themselves into the deep shadows behind the fuel tank just as the headlights reflected off the first plane's prop.

"Did you hear that?" the passenger asked. "Thought I heard footsteps."

"No. Ain't nothing this far out here but these birds, waitin' for Atwood's boys to take 'em swimming. Probably just a critter."

"Damn big critter. I swear I heard feet. You wanna get out and take a look?"

The flashlight beam zigged and zagged over the plane. Kate held her breath, praying the men wouldn't notice the open canopy. In the darkness, Tori gripped her hand. Kate squeezed her fingers, her heart pounding like a trip hammer in her chest.

"Naw. I'm telling you, it was just a varmint. It's long gone by now. Let's go, I got a poker game waitin'."

The jeep started to pull away.

"Hey! Stop! You smell that?"

"What the hell's your problem, Jacobson? I don't smell nothing."

"That's cuz you need a shower, you can't smell nothin' over yer own stink. It smells like a woman's perfume. I just noticed it. The little nurse I was with last weekend wore that same scent. God, that's sexy stuff."

"What the hell would a woman be doing out here? And if there is a woman out here, she's gonna be with a guy and ain't no way I'm interrupting whatever they got going on." A low chuckle. "If one of those flyboys wants to score on the wing of a plane, more power to him."

"Yeah. Guess you're right. All right, let's go."

The jeep traveled slowly down the line of planes, then turned around and drove back past the girls' hiding place again before vanishing. They waited until the only audible sound was that of night insects. Kate let out an explosive breath. Tori swallowed hard.

"Sorry," she said. "I wear this scent all the time, just a way of staying connected to home. I didn't know we were going to run into Jacobson the human bloodhound."

"It's okay," Kate said, peeling herself off the side of the hangar. "Let's go."

Tori gave Kate another leg up onto the wing of the plane. Leaning into the cockpit once again, Kate closed her eyes, remembering the afternoon she'd been on the line when Hutch pulled the switch out of Jim's plane. She'd been on the port wing, asking a dozen questions and scribbling notes while the mechanic worked. And she'd been able to see his long, nimble fingers moving along the control panel in the cockpit. Lower. Further. Right. About.

There.

Her fingers closed around the cylindrical object and she could picture it in her mind's eye. With a sense of triumph, she pressed, twisted and felt the metal release and drop into her hand.

Now what the hell was she going to do with it?

She stared around the cockpit. She didn't want to truly sabotage the planes, just cause a delay. She stretched and shoved the switch as far underneath the seat as she could reach. Even after they figured out what was wrong, it would take a while to find it.

She dropped back to the tarmac and grinned at Tori.

"One down, six to go."

"Is that really going to stop the Navy tomorrow?"

"It'll keep them grounded for a couple of hours and that's all Greg needs." Kate grinned. "Hutch told me those things come out a lot easier than they go back in. The mission will be over before the 118 ever gets off the strip. Come on, let's get this finished." She scanned the dark field. Nothing moved. "We'll leave that one on the end, number 403. That's the one Greg will take up in the morning. It's furthest from the main hangar."

Three-quarters of an hour later, two slender figures wearing mechanics' coveralls slipped through the gate at the back of the airfield and dissolved into the darkness, leaving the chain and padlock artfully arranged to appear secure.

 **XXX**

"I don't know about you but there's a bottle of wine with our name on it in the officers' club."

Kate straightened the tie on her borrowed uniform and jabbed another hair pin into her chignon while Tori adjusted her stockings and garters. She and Tori had let themselves into the back entrance of the press quarters where Kate held a key to a room. After quickly stripping out of the mechanics' coveralls, they'd freshened up and changed back into uniforms.

"Oh, wait, there's one more thing before we go to dinner." Kate pulled the clipboard and sheaf of forms from her bag and held them out to Tori. "These need to be signed by General Moore to get the guys released without question in the morning."

Tori's eyes went wide.

"Are you serious? Now we have to chase around to find General Moore and talk him into signing these? I'm afraid to ask how you're going to convince him to do that."

Kate grinned and handed her a pen.

"No chasing required. You're the artist. I've seen your sketchpads. Forging his signature will be a piece of cake for someone with your talent."

"I don't even know what Moore's signature looks like!"

Kate pulled a folded slip of paper out of her bag and tossed it onto the dresser.

"You do now. Casey found it for me in some old files. It doesn't have to be perfect, Greg says the guards at the brig aren't the sharpest tools in the shed. They wouldn't recognize Moore's signature from hen scratching."

Tori studied the handwriting and narrowed her eyes.

"Kate Cameron, in the last four hours you've stolen official documents, authorized transportation of military personnel under fabricated circumstances, been an accomplice in breaking into a government facility, sabotaged US Navy aircraft and impersonated a nurse and a mechanic! You missed your calling. You could work for covert ops."

Kate shrugged.

"I'm just a farm kid from South Dakota who knows how to get things done. Now I need you to forge Moore's signature." She gestured at the clipboard. "You're in this as deep as I am - why should I have all the fun?"

Tori shook her head.

"Farm kid from South Dakota," she muttered. "Bat crap crazy is more like it."

"I'm not done yet." Kate grinned as she smoothed her hands down her skirt. "Tomorrow I'm giving myself a promotion to lieutenant commander. I think I deserve it." She waved a hand at the clipboard. "The sooner you get those signed, the quicker we can have that drink. I'm buying."

Tori studied the signature, then pulled a fountain pen and piece of scrap paper toward her and started practicing.

 **XXX**

It was well past the dinner hour but the officers' club was still doing a brisk trade with high ranking personnel relaxing over late meals and sailors and marines enjoying R and R.

After they were seated with drinks, Kate looked around the room. She'd been here on several occasions and had grown adept at spotting potential hot buttons that could quickly escalate into unwanted attention. Tonight, she wanted nothing more than to fly under the radar. Both she and Tori knew the risks of two, unescorted women dining alone. The strawberry blonde was deliberately not making eye contact with any of the uniformed men checking them out. Then Kate saw her jump and her eyes widen.

"What?" Kate asked, turning casually to follow her friend's gaze. "Oh, crap."

Seated at a nearby table, General Thomas Moore was entertaining several members of the top brass with a story involving air/sea rescue being sent coordinates for a downed pilot, only to find a half dozen cases of Scotch drifting unescorted in a small picket that had pulled loose from its moorings. Kate immediately recognized the story. It had its roots in a Black Sheep caper that predated her arrival but it was clear Moore found it highly amusing and the other men at the table chuckled appreciatively.

Kate studied the group cautiously. She knew Moore had Greg's back in general but she preferred not to encounter the high ranking officer in his own territory, especially under current circumstances. Dealing with him on La Cava was one thing, dealing with him on Espritos when she was unsure of the men accompanying him was something else. While Moore knew her true identity as K.C. Cameron, Colonel Lard did not and there was the very real and uncomfortable risk Lard would walk through the door to join Moore and his table of cronies at any moment.

"Should we leave?" Tori whispered. She picked up her wineglass and took a healthy sip as a precautionary measure.

"No." Kate shook her head. "Maybe he won't notice us."

The thin man in a white Navy commander's uniform seated at Moore's right peered at his watch as he spoke.

"It's not like Lard to be this late," he said. "That man would be early for his own funeral."

Moore made a dismissive gesture.

"My apologies, gentlemen. Colonel Lard won't be joining us this evening. His secretary phoned as I was leaving my office. He's become suddenly indisposed."

Kate and Tori exchanged glances. Kate relaxed marginally.

The other men made appropriately regretful noises at this news and ordered another round of drinks. The waiter arrived at the girls' table and they placed their dinner orders, then in tacit agreement, made quiet small talk while eavesdropping on the nearby men's conversation.

"Have you inspected your new birds, Atwood? They're a fine sight." Moore asked the commander.

"Not yet. We arrived late and I sent my boys straight to mess and their quarters. I want them at their best tomorrow when we fly that mission. Can't have your Black Sheep showing up the Navy, now can we?" Commander Atwood chortled. "My men will be out of the rack bright and early and in the sky before the sun's up."

"I wouldn't bet on that that," Kate muttered.

Their meal arrived. Both she and Tori had ordered the evening's special, locally caught seafood with fresh vegetables and dinner rolls. Kate barely tasted it. Just once, she thought, she'd like to enjoy a meal here when she wasn't up to her eyeballs in some kind of Black Sheep skullduggery that destroyed her appetite. She finished her food and lay her napkin over her plate.

"Have you seen this article?" One of the men brandished a copy of the _Daily Bugle._ "Unbelievable! Ghosts on the base! What kind of hokum is that!"

"I don't know," another said seriously. "I saw something very odd in that area just last week when I was walking back to my quarters after dark."

The first man guffawed.

"The only ghosts you've seen, Emory, were coming out of an empty Scotch bottle."

The table broke into laughter and with their drinks finished, the men rose to depart. Kate was paying studious attention to her wine when she felt General Moore's presence at their table.

"Good evening, ladies." His greeting harbored more suspicion than Kate thought her and Tori's presence warranted.

"Why, General Moore, so nice to see you again." She dipped her head and smiled up through her lashes. She was fully aware of the impact this had and saw, with relief, it didn't fail her this time. Moore might have a star pinned to his collar but he was just as susceptible to feminine wiles as any other man on this base with the possible except of Colonel Lard. Lard seemed to have no use for anything that wasn't explicitly addressed in the Marine Corps Manual. There was no chapter or sub-section for flirting in that document.

"Likewise, _Lieutenant_ ," Moore said, stressing the word as he met her eyes, then turned to Tori. "Lieutenant Bishop, it's nice to see you as well."

Tori's return smile was cool. Moore had orchestrated her appointment to the South Pacific after a sexual assault ended any hope of her remaining at the stateside base where she'd planned to serve her enlistment. While Tori would be the first to admit the unexpected turn of events had been a blessing in disguise, she hadn't entirely forgiven the general for manipulating her life.

Kate took a healthy drink of her wine. Moore was studying her with a calculating look on his face and did not appear to be in a hurry to leave. The jazz quartet in the corner struck up Duke Ellington's _Satin Doll._

"Would you care to dance, Lieutenant?" He extended his hand. The look in his eyes warned Kate not to decline.

"I'd be delighted." _And I'd be an idiot to say no._

She'd been around Moore enough to know while he could be influenced by a flirtatious smile, the man was nobody's fool. She let him lead her to the dance floor, where he took her hand in one of his and settled the other lightly on her waist, keeping a respectful distance between them. For a large man, he was a remarkably graceful dancer but for Kate, the experience came with the comfort level of juggling live grenades. She forced herself to breathe deeply. For just a moment, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the music.

"I don't suppose you know anything about Ford Appleton's story in today's _Bugle_?"

She opened her eyes and met Moore's dark gaze. She didn't have a poker face and she knew it. If she attempted outright denial, he would see through her in a second.

"I read it," she said, letting her expression slide into what she hoped was surprised innocence. "The situation sounds absolutely bizarre."

"That isn't what I asked, Miss Cameron." Moore's use of her real name said he found her evasion of the subject suspicious.

"I don't know any more about it than you do, General," she said. Which was the truth, since the entire story was a fabrication in the first place.

Moore sighed.

"You're a female war correspondent who's supposed to be a man and now you're impersonating a Navy nurse. I don't know what you're doing here and quite frankly, I don't want to," Moore said. He glanced around the club as if looking for someone. "I don't see Greg here. I get the impression the two of you are never very far apart these days."

 _He's here, all right. You haven't looked in the right place_.

She beamed at him.

"I'm just keeping Lieutenant Bishop company on R and R, sir."

Moore looked skeptical.

"Just the two of you?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's odd," he said, a puzzled look on his face. "I swore I saw Lieutenant Wiley here earlier but the Black Sheep should all be on La Cava, prepping for that mission tomorrow."

Kate shrugged innocently.

"TJ's still off the flight roster after he got splashed last week. But he isn't with us, in any case. This is a girls' night out." She, too, had seen TJ earlier, in the company of a curvaceous brunette she thought was Colonel Lard's secretary. The sandy haired pilot had flashed them a thumbs up behind the girl's back as the two of them left the club. Kate was sure no one would see either of them again this evening.

"Commander Atwood was telling us about the new Corsairs VF 118 is picking up tomorrow," Moore said in an abrupt change of subject. Kate felt her heart kick up a notch and willed her face to remain neutral. "I understand Greg's been having trouble putting 15 planes in the air . . . and now on the night before a joint mission of the Black Sheep and the 118, with eight new planes sitting on the strip, you show up here." He looked around the room again. "The only thing missing from this equation is Greg."

 _He's not really missing,_ Kate thought. _I know exactly where he is._

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir," she said. This was pushing the limits of her ability to lie convincingly but unless Moore came right out and asked her if Greg had designs on one of Atwood's new birds, she thought she could pull it off.

Moore studied her appraisingly and for a second, Kate thought about telling him everything. If he could spring Greg and Hutch from the brig, she wouldn't have to rely on her own admittedly sketchy plan for the following morning. The song ended and the general guided her back to the table, his hand light against her waist. No, she decided, there was no sense pulling him into this. The fewer people who had eyes on this mission, the better.

"So nice to see you again, General," she smiled. "I'll tell Greg you sent your regards."

"You do that, _Lieutenant_." Moore gave her a final thoughtful look and left.

"Any more of this and I'm going to start drinking like it's my day job," Kate said, sliding into her chair and letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She pushed her wine glass toward Tori, who took one look at her friend's face and splashed a generous measure of ruby liquid into it.

"Do you think he knows?"

Kate took a long drink. The Aussie wine slid down her throat with deceptive smoothness. She set the glass down. It wouldn't help their cause to get reeling drunk although that was a tempting thought.

"He thinks something's going on but he doesn't know what and he doesn't want to, either. He asked a few questions but didn't push it. There's no real reason for him to know Greg's in the brig. Greg is Lard's immediate responsibility and I don't have any way of knowing whether he's aware of it or not." She only hoped her fabricated story was the source of the colonel's "indisposal" and would keep him occupied to the exclusion of anything else going on around him. She looked around the bar. "It couldn't have been much of a fight. Nothing looks very broken up and it happened just this afternoon. I've seen those boys take this place apart."

Tori sipped her wine and nodded in agreement.

"So what's the plan for tomorrow?"

"I'm still working on it."

"Kate . . ." Tori's tone held an unspoken warning.

Kate took another drink.

"Go to the brig, distract the guards, spring the guys, get Greg in that plane and all of us get clear before the Navy wakes up."

"Is that all?" Tori said drily. "Let's start with distracting the guards. If we're crashing the brig I'd rather go in there armed with more than good intentions."

Kate grinned.

"Boobs and legs."

"What!"

"Remember I said we were going to use every asset we had? Guys don't always think with the head on their shoulders. Give them a little something else to think about and they'll agree to almost anything you suggest. That's what I'm counting on. And the element of surprise. We're going to hit the brig at 0500."

"You make it sound like a military strike."

"It might be."

Tori gave her friend a searching look.

"Just tell me what you want me to do."

"I will. As soon as I figure it out."

Tori refilled their glasses and lifted hers in a toast.

"Here's to us. And to the two damned fool idiots who are the reason we're here. Now let's talk about something else."

"Deal." Kate raised her glass and tapped Tori's. "To damn fool idiots, which probably includes ourselves. What else can we talk about?"

Tori grinned.

"Have you and Greg ever . . . you know . . . on the base? Actually on the base, not at the beach or wherever?"

"Victoria Bishop!" Kate pretended to be shocked. "I'm cutting you off!" Laughing, she pulled the bottle of wine out of Tori's reach.

"Not trying to pry," Tori said hastily. Kate noticed her cheeks were pink with color. "It's just, John and I, well, we end up in his tent a lot because he doesn't share it with anyone and I wondered about you two because all the boys share tents, except Greg but . . ." She stopped, aware Kate was smothering a laugh. "What?"

"You are so lucky! Hutch's tent is way the hell out there on the line. You could both howl like monkeys and no one would know the difference. Greg's tent is the absolute last place we would ever make love," she said firmly. "That thing's practically got a revolving door, plus it's too close to the Sheep Pen. Mine's no better. French and Anderson are right next door and trust me, they know too much already." She shook her head. "We go to the beach a lot . . . or if we're lucky, guest quarters here. Oh – and once at the waterfall." She blushed at the memory, recalling Greg's hands and mouth and everything else on that sun-drenched afternoon. "We don't get much time to ourselves, really."

"But Greg _does_ have a tent to himself," Tori teased.

"No." Kate set her wine glass down resolutely. "Absolutely not. Geez, Casey and Jim have walked in on us so many times it's like a hobby for them. And the other boys are just as bad." She picked her glass up again and drank deeply. "A girl has to have her standards. There are some things I don't want the Black Sheep interrupting!"

"The nurses' quarters aren't much safer, to tell the truth," Tori said. "Delmonte's been on a rampage lately. I've only had to shove John out the window once but to hear Dee tell it, that's why most of the hook-ups are on the base."

"Probably," Kate mused. "Those boys aren't always very discriminating and after they get a few drinks into their nurse of the week, they'll go at it anywhere they can get horizontal. Or vertical. Dee told me the com shack was pretty popular for awhile. Can you imagine?"

"No," Tori said firmly and raised her wine glass again.

"To John and Greg," she said.

"To Greg and Hutch," Kate agreed. "And to getting their butts out of the brig in the morning without getting thrown in with them."

 **XXX**

 _I didn't want to stop and think that even if we got Greg into that plane and off Espritos before the Navy had their first cup of coffee tomorrow, he still had to bring the damn thing back without getting caught. But sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Or something like that. One bloody crisis at a time was all I could handle. – Kate_

 **To be continued**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Out of the frying pan  
**

 **Espritos Marcos, Allied Rear Command**

 **0500 hours**

The jeep's headlights cut through wisps of ground fog as Kate drove past the sign proclaiming "Espritos Marcos U.S. Navy Brig." A smaller sign ordered "No Parking." She parked in front of it and studied the clapboard building. What she and Tori had done yesterday was child's play compared to what lie ahead.

"I've got a bad feeling about this." Tori's words hung nervously in the air.

"You stop that, everything is going to work out just fine," Kate said, her tone resolute. "We're doing this for Greg and Hutch and all of the boys. Failure is not an option." She looked at Tori. "Remember, you're with the USO, job shadowing military nurses and scouting rear areas for shows. So don't march around like you're in the Navy."

"Don't march? What do you want me to do?"

"Slink."

"Slink?"

"You know – sashay, swing your hips. Between your boobs and my legs I think we can get this done with a minimum of bloodshed."

Tori fluffed her hair and adjusted the neckline of her dress, an attractive civilian number that displayed her curves to their best advantage. She pulled a compact from her bag and checked her lipstick, then looked at Kate and her eyebrows nearly shot off her forehead.

"What are you doing!"

Kate unpinned the first lieutenant's bars from her collar and dropped them into a pocket. She replaced them with the oak leaf of lieutenant commander's rank.

"They're Delmonte's," she said as if that explained everything. At Tori's continued wide-eyed stare, she added, "I snagged them from her office when I got the paperwork yesterday. Thought this morning's situation calls for a little more clout."

Tori closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"We're in such deep shit if we get caught."

"Why, Miss Bishop, I thought the USO always had our fighting boys' best interests in mind," Kate said with mock severity.

"I do have John's best interests in mind – Greg's, too - I'd just prefer not to end up under hack for the rest of my enlistment."

"Come on, where's your sense of adventure?" Kate grinned broadly. She adjusted her garrison cap, picked up the clipboard with Tori's carefully forged signatures on the paperwork and swung out of the jeep. "Ready, Miss Bishop?"

Tori rolled her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Ready, _Lieutenant_ _Commander_."

They marched up the steps.

 **XXX**

In the shadowy confines of the holding cell, Greg sat on the edge of the bunk. His elbows rested on his knees and his forehead was pressed against steepled fingers. In the other bunk, Hutch slept with an arm thrown over his face.

The clock on the wall outside the bars read 0500. Each tick of the second hand sounded like the beat of a kettle drum. Greg did the math in his head for the hundredth time. If they could get released without any complications in the next few hours, there was still a good chance they could pull this off.

If not, he might as well go back to LaCava and tell the boys to pack their bags. He'd pushed Lard to the end of his tether. If the colonel caught the Black Sheep unable to muster 15 planes, he'd laugh the whole time he filed the paperwork to dismantle the squadron. About the only good thing was the fact Kate was still on La Cava, safely away from the shit storm that was inevitable when Lard found out he was in here and not leading the day's mission. In fact, he was mildly surprised the colonel hadn't shown up to gloat the night before. Surely the man had been notified. It was standard operating procedure to inform a superior officer any time personnel under their command ended up in the brig. He knew that from experience.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and wondered if he had any chips to cash in with General Moore. Moore wouldn't hesitate to chew ass when the situation warranted but Greg knew the general believed in the Black Sheep's unmatched skill as a squadron. He'd once told Greg those boys knew how to do anything but salute. Moore would bluster and snarl and threaten disciplinary action, then find a way to get both him and Hutch out of here while throwing cold water on Lard's protests.

Greg was just about to call for the guard and make a hail Mary play to contact Moore when he heard tires crunch on the crushed shell drive in front of the building. Through the wire-covered window, he could see the first pearl gray hint of dawn. Who would be out here this early? Experience had also taught him the guards wouldn't change shifts until 0700.

The unmistakable sound of heels clicked on the wooden stairs. A woman? No, there were two sets of footsteps. Two women? What the . . . ? The door banged open and his heart leaped as a familiar voice snapped with authority.

"On your feet, Corporal!"

Oh. Dear. God.

Kate had never listened to him before when he told her stay out of trouble. Why should this time be any different? He stepped quickly to the adjoining bunk and shook Hutch awake. Pressing a finger to his lips, he pointed toward the outer office.

"Follow my lead," he said. "This may not be a soup sandwich after all."

 **XXX**

 _Or it might be an absolute flaming disaster. My money was on Kate but either way, there wasn't any turning back now. - Greg_

 **XXX**

Kate learned three things early in her career as a war correspondent. One, men generally viewed women as gentle, relatively helpless creatures. Two, they were never prepared when that proved not to be the case. And three, absolutely nothing gave you the upper hand like the element of surprise. She planned on playing the hell out of all three.

She grinned at Tori and marched into the front office of the brig like she owned it. A night clerk sat dozing with his feet on a cluttered desk. Behind him, a closed door led to what Kate presumed were the cells where the men were held. She'd been a lot of places during the war but she could honestly say she'd never had any experience with military detention. When this caper was concluded, she hoped she could still say that. She deliberately let the door bang into the wall.

"On your feet, Corporal!" she barked.

The young man jolted out of his doze with a startled snort. He jerked his feet off the desk, his shoe catching a stack of paperwork and sending it flying. The chair tipped over backward and spilled him onto the floor where he scrambled to collect the scattered papers, then, face scarlet, he snapped to attention and saluted.

Kate returned the salute.

"At ease, Corporal." Her voice was no nonsense. Before he could collect himself, she snapped, "What's your name?"

"Lund, ma'am, Corporal Elias Lund."

"Are you the only staff on duty?" Kate had no idea when the warden came in, although she doubted it was at 0500, especially since she'd just caught the guard sleeping.

"Y-yes, ma'am. Night watch is just one man. Full staff comes on at 0700." The young man was mortified at having been found sleeping on duty and what was worse, the discovery had come at the hands of two of the most attractive women he'd ever seen. The lieutenant commander was dazzling in a terrifying sort of way and the civilian with her looked like she'd walked off a movie set.

"I'm here to collect . . . ," Kate paused and looked at the clipboard as if she were unfamiliar with the names, " . . . Major Gregory Boyington and First Lieutenant John Hutchinson. They are here, correct?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, but they aren't going anywhere," Corporal Lund seemed relieved to be back on familiar ground. "Colonel Lard will have to sign off on their release before I can let them go and he usually doesn't get into his office until 0900 at the earliest. I can't release anyone until he's signed off on them," he repeated, as if saying it twice would make it an unarguable truth.

"That's where you're wrong," Kate snapped. It was times like this when the military's insistence on chain of command drove her absolutely insane and she understood why Greg frequently overrode orders with the casual ease of someone who has a better idea and knows it. "Those men were at the hospital yesterday for blood tests and the results have just come back from the lab." She flashed a form, then returned it to her clipboard while the corporal was still trying to focus on it.

"It looks like they were trying to cure what ailed them with alcohol," Lund said, laughing at his own wit. "They got hauled in here for brawling in the officers' club."

If he expected this news to startle the two women, he was quickly disappointed.

"What ails them is Influenza H3N9," Kate snapped. "It's a highly contagious airborne pathogen. These men should be in the infirmary not the brig. They'll have half the base infected if we don't get them under quarantine." She paused to enjoy the effect of her words, biting the inside of her cheek in order not to smile as the corporal paled. "I've got Form TR497 that authorizes their release into the custody of ranking medical personnel and Form F52 that requires any personnel who have been in contact with them to report immediately to the hospital for blood tests and a 72 hour stand down before contact with other personnel."

"This is highly irregular, ma'am," the corporal protested. He looked at the clock and grimaced but said resolutely, "I'll need to call Colonel Lard to confirm this." He reached for the telephone receiver. Kate's heart pounded into overdrive. If that call went through, the jig was up. Lard might huff and puff but he'd accept Moore's signature on the forms. If he came to the brig in person, however, he wouldn't waste any time questioning Kate's charade as a lieutenant commander. She'd prefer he didn't question any of her identities.

"Oooooh!" Tori squealed. She spun in place, her skirt swirling attractively, and pointed at the shadows under the desk. Kate and Corporal Lund turned to see her leap nimbly atop one of the chairs against the wall. Kate was impressed. Tori was wearing a pair of borrowed civilian high heels.

"A mouse! Ooooh, a great big mouse!" she squeaked in a terrified tone that didn't fool Kate for a minute but had the desired effect on Corporal Lund. "It ran right across my foot!" She hiked up her skirt, exposing a shapely thigh and the edge of a garter, as if concerned the mouse might be harboring itself somewhere it shouldn't.

Corporal Lund gawked and stepped away from the phone, all intention of calling Colonel Lard forgotten. Tori played her role to the hilt, leaning over just far enough as if searching for the mouse to give the corporal an unimpeded view of her décolletage.

"I assure you, Miss Bishop, it's gone now," Kate said crisply. "You USO girls have had more dangerous encounters with the men you're here to entertain." Spurred into action, the corporal gallantly offered Tori his hand. She stepped off the chair like a princess alighting from a carriage and giggled as she clung to his arm. The corporal made no move to detach himself.

Kate made a show of unfastening a handful of forms from the clipboard.

"Here are the TR497 Permission To Release and the F52 you'll need to take with you when you report to the hospital for your blood work. You can see they've been signed by General Moore." She accidentally on purpose let the forms slip from her fingers before Corporal Lund could grasp them.

"I'll get those for you, Lieutenant Commander," Tori said and leaned over, making sure the full swell of her cleavage was prominently displayed.

"Oh, let me, ma'am!" Corporal Lund bent to retrieve the papers, crashing into Kate, who pretended to lose her balance and toppled backward into one of the chairs. Her silk stocking clad legs flashed two inches in front of the corporal's face.

He couldn't take his eyes off them and Kate forced herself to keep her face neutral as he managed to collect the paperwork solely by touch. The boy's eyes were glued on her calves, which she made sure to keep at his face level.

The clock on the wall read 0515. They needed to step this up.

"If you'll be so kind as to release the men, we'll be on our way. The sooner they're in quarantine, the better," Kate said briskly, standing up as Corporal Lund staggered to his feet, the papers clutched haphazardly in his hands.

"Yes, ma'am." He fumbled in the desk for a key ring and unlocked the door to the cell block.

"You shouldn't go any closer," Kate warned. "Give me the key. As soon as we leave, you'll need to disinfect their cell with bleach, then report to the hospital. Don't stop to talk to anyone on the way, do you understand me?"

Reluctantly, Corporal Lund handed her the key.

"But aren't you at risk, ma'am? If they're that contagious, maybe it would be better if I just covered my mouth and nose and let them out, so you don't have to get close to them either.

"Your concern is appreciated," Kate said, "but Miss Bishop and I have been vaccinated against this strain of influenza. It's an experimental protocol that's showing excellent results. Now step aside, Corporal."

Lund stepped out of the way to avoid being run over and Kate strode through the door with Tori right behind her.

The layout of the cell block was simple and the girls' job was made easier by the fact Greg and Hutch were its only occupants. As soon as the door to the outer office closed, both men stepped up to the bars.

Kate made a quick slashing motion across her throat to keep either of them from saying anything. She met Greg's incredulous expression with a bright smile.

"Major Boyington and Lieutenant Hutchinson?" she said, her voice clipped and professional. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Halvorson – we met yesterday in the infirmary." Her raised eyebrows defied either of them to argue. "My assistant and I are here to escort you back to the hospital. Your blood tests came back positive for a highly contagious strain of influenza and you need to be placed under immediate quarantine."

"Lieutenant Commander," Greg said in a strangled tone. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon." He looked at the insignia on her collar and dropped his voice. "How do you serve that Cameron, on a shingle?"

"I took a page out of your book," she hissed. "Now cooperate if you want to get out of here."

"What would you like us to do?" His eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Act sick."

Hutch groaned and Kate thought the dark-haired mechanic looked genuinely ill. She didn't blame him. Her own gut was churning and they weren't anywhere close to pulling this off yet. Unlike Greg, who was in his element when running a scam, Hutch was clearly out of his comfort zone. So was she. How had she ever gotten involved in this? Greg caught her eye and winked. She returned it with a glare. He chuckled.

"Stop it. Sick men don't laugh."

He laughed harder.

"Are you ever going to listen when I tell you to stay out of trouble?"

"What do you think?"

Kate jammed the key into the cell door lock and wrenched the mechanism open, all the while thanking God they didn't still need to drag TJ out of whatever bed he'd tumbled into to pick the lock on the fence so they could get back on the airfield. The rear access was so rarely used, it could go months before someone discovered it had been breached.

"How are you feeling, Lieutenant?" Tori stepped forward. Hutch draped an arm over her shoulders and she put an arm around his waist in return. Kate thought Tori was doing an excellent job of blending concern with acting. It helped that she was genuinely concerned about Hutch although the mythical H3N9 virus had nothing to do with it.

"I'll be better when I get out of here," Hutch muttered. "I don't even want to know what you girls have been up to."

"Don't you worry," Tori said loud enough to carry to the front office. "We'll have you taken care of in no time."

"Let's go, Major," Kate said briskly. Greg didn't move.

"Aren't you a little young to be a lieutenant commander?"

"Don't be insolent." She glared at him.

"Let me enjoy the moment." His eyes took a long, slow walk over her figure and he shook his head, grinning appreciatively. "Damn, Katie. You look good in that uniform." The unspoken _"You'd look even better out of it"_ hung on the air and the whisky rough tone of his voice teased like fingers on skin.

"Are you done!" she hissed. "Go! Now!"

He chuckled, the husky sound curling through her blood like smoke and nearly derailing her concentration.

Greg followed Hutch out of the cell. Kate thought he could have worked a little harder at acting sick. Under the circumstances, it looked more like he was trying not to laugh. They paused in the outer office. Corporal Lund was still fumbling and frowning at the the sheaf of forms Kate had given him. She took advantage of his confusion.

"If anyone finds out personnel suspected of carrying the H3N9 virus were sent to the brig where they could transfer the pathogen to men from other bases, it could set off a panic. If we hadn't gotten here when we did, this oversight could have put the entire theatre at risk of an epidemic."

Corporal Lund was starting to look ill himself. Kate suspected the young man hadn't even been on duty when Greg and Hutch were brought in but she didn't cut him any slack.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he babbled. "They were already booked in on drunk and disorderly, no one said nothing about –"

Kate cut him off.

"If this breech in bio-security ever gets out, you'll be busted down to private or worse." She paused, feeling genuinely sorry for the hapless youth but drove her point home. "I'm confident these men are only in the initial stages of infection and aren't a high contagion risk yet. I'm willing to overlook this lapse as long as you keep it on the down low. We don't want news of this getting leaked to the press corps - they'd have a field day. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, ma'am."

Corporal Lund stood, gaping. Kate ushered the other three out the door ahead of her then turned back and snapped, "What are you waiting for? That cell needs to be bleached, Corporal! All surfaces!" She spun on her heel and slammed the door behind her.

Outside, a rim of orange glowed on the eastern horizon. The fog had lifted, leaving the cool air drenched with humidity. They walked slowly until they were out of earshot of the brig then Greg stopped and caught Kate by the arm.

"Well, Commander, what do we do now that you've got that poor kid so scared he can barely move?" The look on his face told Kate he either wanted to kiss her or lock her up. "I presume you have something in mind since you went to all this work to get us out."

Kate glanced at her watch.

"Lard moved up the mission schedule. The Black Sheep are supposed to meet the 182nd at 0900, not 1100."

Any trace of humor faded from Greg's face.

"When did those orders come through?"

"Apparently the same time you were being drunk and disorderly," she said. "And there's more. They're expecting heavy resistance and the 118 has been assigned to fly it with the Black Sheep. Atwood's boys who are here to pick up the new birds will be going up at 0600 to rendezvous with the 182nd and the 214."

No one said anything. A few early rising gulls wheeled and called over the harbor.

"Don't just stand there, get in the jeep!" Kate said impatiently. "You've got a mission to fly!"

Greg looked at his watch and didn't move.

"Sweetheart, the 118 is going to show up in 30 minutes and launch those birds. There's no way I can pull off borrowing one. Even if I lift off now, they'd know I was the one who took their plane as soon as they caught up with the Black Sheep."

"I wouldn't bet on it." She pointed at the jeep. "Get in!" Without waiting for a reply, she continued, "Hutch, take us out to the airfield. Use the north service gate, behind the hangers. It's not locked and there's no guard posted on it."

Hutch looked considerably more at ease now they were out of the brig. He gave Tori's waist a squeeze, then jumped behind the wheel and turned the engine over. Tori joined him in the front.

"Katie," Greg said, "what have you done?" He was moving, though, handing her into the jeep and swinging in after her.

"The 118 is going to have a hard time getting their planes off the ground," Kate said. "You'll have rendezvoused with the rest of the Black Sheep and the 182nd will have bombed the hell out of whatever it is they're hitting on Choisuel before the Navy boys figure out why their birds won't start. Here." She pulled a bundle of fabric from under the seat and shoved it in his lap. "Get changed unless you're going to fly this in dress khakis."

The look Greg shot her would have incinerated a lesser person. She held his gaze defiantly. He made no move to change clothes. Hutch picked up speed, cutting through the base on the shortest possible course to the airfield.

"What makes you so sure they won't get their planes off the ground?" Greg didn't look like he really wanted to know the answer. "Those are brand new birds, sweetheart. They haven't been out here long enough to start falling apart."

"They had a little help," Kate said through gritted teeth as Hutch made a gravity defying turn. "They're all missing the main switch. Except for one."

"They're what!"

"You'll be long gone before they figure out what's wrong, let alone fix it."

"You should have seen her, she was amazing," Tori shouted over her shoulder. "She pulled those switches in no time and we were back in the officers' club having drinks by 1900."

"I had good help," Kate said proudly. "TJ got us onto the field and Tori was a lookout."

"TJ . . . Tori . . . all three of you . . . did this . . ."

In later years, Kate would remember that moment as one of the few she ever saw Greg totally speechless. She plowed ahead without pausing.

"We needed a reason to get to Espritos so we slapped a few bandages on TJ and escorted him over here for additional medical care. Everything's gone more or less according to plan."

"I don't think she had a plan," Tori interjected. She shrugged. "But I've never seen anyone fly by the seat of their pants as well as Kate. Even when we ran into General Moore last night."

Greg still looked incapable of speech. Kate waved a hand dismissively.

"I'll tell you about that later – "

He recovered enough to interrupt her.

"I can't wait."

She ignored him.

"The only obstacle left is getting tower clearance. Casey didn't want to amend the original flight plan while you were still . . . um . . . locked up . . . and Atwood may have filed something entirely different when he got in last night. Or he may have had his exec file a plan this morning. There's no way of knowing until you take off."

"Leave that to me." Greg looked down at the roll of khaki in his lap. "Let me get this straight, Cameron - you want me to strip down and change clothes in the back of a moving jeep on the way to steal a plane after you sabotaged the rest of the wing and impersonated medical personnel to get us released? And God only knows what you pulled over on Moore. I'm surprised you didn't waltz into Lard's office and give him hell while you were at it."

"We didn't have time. So, yeah, that about covers it. Now get changed. Tori promises not to look."

"Right," Tori echoed from the front seat.

"Sweetheart, I don't know what I ever did to deserve you." Greg yanked off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He peeled it off as Hutch steered the jeep through the quiet Naval base. Their path was made erratic by the fact the base never really slept and he kept having to make turns to avoid early rising work details. Kate shook out the flight suit as Greg unlaced his shoes and pulled off his trousers. He had the garment wrestled up around his waist when Tori looked over the back of the seat, grinned and whistled. She flashed a thumbs up at Kate. Greg narrowed his eyes.

"Face forward, Lieutenant," he ordered but there was no heat in his words.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Tori said with a perfect aplomb, "but I'm a nurse. I've seen it all before."

Greg jammed his feet into his boots as Hutch slowed the jeep outside the airfield gate. Tori jumped out, slid the chain loose and dragged the gate open. Hutch drove through and paused as she closed it and jumped back in. They rolled quietly down the line of Corsairs, the planes' wings gleaming as the early rays of the sun slid over their glossy blue paint.

"Go to the far end," Kate instructed. "Number 403's still intact. We picked that one because it was the furthest away from the hangars."

"Sometimes it's scary, the way you think." Greg straightened from tying his boots.

"You're welcome."

Hutch pulled the jeep into the shadows behind 403 and turned to Kate.

"Just out of curiosity, what did you do with the switches?"

Kate grinned.

"I hid them in a different spot in each plane. They'll find them. Eventually. I think."

Hutch glanced at the eastern horizon.

"I'll fire her up for you, Pappy, but once she catches, we're gonna have to move like we're in Hell wearing gasoline skivvies. The MPs are gonna be all over this place."

Greg studied the plane and Kate could see him weighing the odds, cool calculation flashing through his mind.

"Do it," he said.

Hutch leaped out of the jeep. He spun the prop to clear the cylinders, then scrambled onto the wing and into the cockpit. Within a few seconds, he threw the ignition switch and the massive Pratt and Whitney engine roared to life. Kate saw him doing a quick check of gauges and instruments, then look up and narrow his eyes at something in the distance. He leaped down off the wing and sprinted back to them.

"I believe we're going to dispense with the extended version of the pre-flight today. She's got ammo in her guns and fuel in her belly. Ladies, we need to get outta here. We got MPs coming."

Kate reached into the jeep.

"Here." She jammed a mae west over Greg's head, shoved a helmet and goggles into his hands and tucked piece of paper into the upper pocket of his flight suit. "The coordinates for the mission. Go!"

Greg caught Kate's upper arm and spun her to face him. The first rays of sun were breaking through low clouds, gilding both of them. His eyes were the deep, aquamarine that had taken her breath away the first time they'd met. He brushed his fingers across her cheek.

"I love you."

Kate let a slow smile play over her face, matching his grin.

"I know." She kissed him, hard and fast. "Now get out of here."

Hutch pulled the chocks and Greg had the fighter moving while the approaching MPs were still arguing about how anyone had gotten into the restricted area without being cleared at the main gate. With their attention riveted on the rogue plane powering into the coral glow of the dawn, they never saw the jeep and its three occupants vanish into the shadows behind the line and roll quietly away.

 **XXX**

As he taxied toward the main strip, Greg keyed his throat mike and made little attempt at disguising his voice. This was either going to work or it wasn't. There wasn't any middle ground.

"Espritos tower, this is Commander Atwood with VF 118, requesting clearance."

He felt the hum of power under his hands and checked the controls. He made a few routine adjustments, marveling that the gauges all registered exactly where they should with no need to amp up one aspect of power to compensate for a weakness elsewhere. The plane was damned amazing but he wasn't out of the woods yet.

"Commander? Sir?" The controller's voice sounded baffled. "Our records show a plan filed 24 hours ago for you to go up at 0900 today. No. Wait. There's another plan . . . wait . . . it says you and your men were rescheduled to depart at 0600 hours. Um. What? But you're going up now? That can't be right. Hang on. I don't know what's . . . " The sound of muffled swearing carried over the radio.

"There's been a change of plans. You must not have been notified." Greg put every ounce of confidence he had into his words. "I'm up early for a check ride. My men will follow later."

He pointed the plane's nose down the strip, enjoying the seductive promise of its rising power.

"Sir? Sir! You're not cleared for take-off! You can't - "

"Tower, are there any incoming planes I should know about?"

"Uh . . . there's a transport approaching on a vector from the northwest but wait! No! But sir, you're not - you can't –"

"You might want to have your vision checked, son," Greg interrupted as the Corsair broke the bounds of gravity and lifted into the air. "It would appear I can."

"Sir!" The controller's protests disintegrated as number 403 soared into the pastel canvas of the sunrise.

Greg put the big fighter into a climb and pulled the coordinates out of his pocket. After setting a course to meet the Black Sheep, he spared a moment to reflect on the image of Kate walking into the cell block, back ramrod straight, eyes blazing. It wasn't the first time she'd done something that made him want to push her up against a wall and take her right there, putting all that hot, vibrant energy to good use. And it wasn't the first time the circumstances prevented him from acting on that impulse.

The girl was bright and resourceful with a sensuality that stemmed not only from her looks but from her absolute refusal to back down in the face of adversity. He'd meant it when he said he didn't know what he'd done to deserve her. Not only did she understand what this squadron meant, she understood the balance between his love for his men and their collective mission and his love for her. Understood it enough to put her credibility on the line to keep them all together. When he got back from this, he'd make sure she knew how much he appreciated her. Not that either of them questioned it, they just didn't get to express it often enough.

 **XXX**

 _I was above the clouds, 403 purring toward the rendezvous at nearly 400 miles an hour, when it occurred to me, there was no way in hell I could take this bird back to Espritos when we were done. The chaos Kate had incited to keep the 118 grounded would no doubt still be brewing hours from now and even if it wasn't, the Navy was going to be madder than a wet cat looking for their missing plane. I'd just have to take it back to La Cava until I could figure out what to do with it. I'd just tell Kate I was borrowing it. For the rest of the war. She'd understand. - Greg_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Into the fire**

 **Vella La Cava**

 **VMF 214 HQ**

Euphoria at the mission's success spilled out of the planes with the men, enveloping them and the ground crew in an almost tangible cloud of testosterone and high spirits. Not only had Kate and Tori's reckless maneuvering gotten Greg and Hutch out of the brig without Colonel Lard's detection, Greg's plan to borrow one of the Navy's planes had – against all odds - succeeded. The Black Sheep flew cover for the 182nd and presented a solid presence of 15 planes for anyone who cared to count. As predicted, the Japanese resistance had been strong but the boys' skilled teamwork made VF 118's failure to appear due to "mechanical problems" a non-issue.

Mechanics assigned to the 118 muttered to themselves about Ford Appleton's story in the _Daily Bugle_ as they searched for the missing switches and spent an inordinate amount of time looking over their shoulders, unsure if they wanted to glimpse one of the displeased local spirits or not. A disembodied tribal warrior seeking vengeance for the disturbance of holy ground might be an easier explanation than trying to figure out why the main switches had vanished from seven brand new aircraft overnight without anyone seeing a thing.

Kate, Tori, Hutch and an exhausted but smug TJ caught an early transport from Espritos to La Cava. Kate returned the uniform to Laura at the hospital and Dee promised she'd slip Lieutenant Commander Delmonte's insignia back into the woman's desk before she ever noticed they were missing. Kate swore she was done impersonating senior officers and was perfectly happy to be a mere lieutenant if the occasion should arise again.

By now, the tale of the girls' caper was common knowledge. Once the mission was complete and the Black Sheep were clear of the 182nd, Greg had given the boys a rough sketch of what happened. He promised the girls would fill in the details at a party in their honor that evening. In a unit that would celebrate anything at the drop of a hat, it was a foregone conclusion there would be party.

The only thing that hadn't gone according to plan was Greg setting down on La Cava with the rest of the squadron and spinning 403 into place on the line with an air of unarguable authority.

Kate watched from the mechanics' shed with Hutch and TJ. The latter had a friendly arm slung around her shoulders. She shook her head in resigned disbelief.

"I knew he wasn't going to give that plane back," she mused. "I just knew it."

Not that she wasn't happy to see him safely back but the original plan had been for him to return later that day on a transport, 403 having been returned to her rightful owners who wouldn't be any the wiser. She wasn't sure what was going to happen now. The shiny new bird stood out like a peacock in full plumage on the line. The 214 couldn't just keep it, could they? She had the sudden, uneasy feeling that was exactly what they were going to do.

"That might be for the best, all things considered." TJ broke into her thoughts. "They're in a right mess on Espritos. I called over there earlier to talk to, well, never mind who, and she said Atwood's boys nearly started a war with the mechanics when none of their birds would start this morning. Atwood stormed into Lard's office and accused him of sabotaging the planes so the Marines could fly the mission without any Navy help and take all the credit. Lard went right back at him and said he'd expected the Navy to be able to get their planes in the air without anyone holding their hands. It went downhill from there." He shrugged. "Then the Seabees rolled in with excavation equipment for that new wing they're adding onto the hospital and Lard nearly lost his shit thinking they were going to dig up his office to look for skeletons."

"Are you carrying on with Lard's secretary?" Kate arched her eyebrows.

"Maggie? I mean, Margaret? I mean, Lieutenant Weber? No – I – well - how'd you know!" TJ stared with disbelief. "You're worse than Boyle for running gossip."

"Not gossip." She poked him in the stomach. "Deductive reasoning. What other _she_ would you be talking to who might have insider information about Lard's office? Besides, I saw you two leaving the officers' club last night, remember?"

TJ scowled.

"Don't say anything to Elaine. Please." He gave her a pleading look. "She thinks she's the only one."

"TJ . . ." Kate shook her head in warning as the young pilot grinned apologetically.

The boys' jubilant shouts filled the dusty air. Greg pushed his canopy back and standing, yelled over the din.

"Where's Wiley? I've got something to tell him."

TJ dropped his arm from Kate's shoulder. He, Hutch and Kate walked out into the dusty sunshine as Greg dropped down from 403. The other men gathered around, still high-fiving and slapping each other on the back.

"TJ?" Greg said, his voice serious. Kate saw the sparkle in his eye and wondered where this was going.

"Yeah, Pappy?" TJ looked apprehensive and she knew he still felt guilty about being a casualty in the dog fight that had cost the unit a fully functional aircraft even though Greg had long since absolved him of any blame.

"This is a brand new, top of the line bird," Greg said. "She's seen less than four hours of combat flight time. She handles like your best girl – hot, sweet and ready to give you anything you ask for. She doesn't use oil, has never been on fire and she's all factory original, no patches, no baling wire. And there's no lead in her tail." He slapped the leading edge of the wing, then turned to face TJ. "She's yours."

"Huh?" The young pilot's mouth fell open.

 _Well that seals it,_ Kate thought. _If he's giving it to TJ, he has no intention of giving it back to the Navy._

"Hey!" Bobby Boyle shouted. "How come Wiley gets the new brand new plane? What about the rest of us?"

"Because," Greg said with exaggerated patience, "the rest of you boneheads already have planes." He looked from one face to the next. "And whoever flew my bird this morning better not have scratched the paint."

Boyle opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it and shrugged. The squadron turned en masse and headed for the Sheep Pen. Kate saw Greg holding his ground and made her way through the throng of men.

"Hey. I'm glad you're back." She stretched up and brushed her lips over his.

Without speaking, he pulled her in and kissed her as the men surged past them. The unexpected impact of his body against hers left her a little dizzy. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself to the embrace, temporarily forgetting her self-imposed rule against public displays of affection. He was hot and sweaty and she didn't care, feeling heat curl through her core as his tongue brushed hers, triumph, love and need swirling around her.

"Hey Greg! If you're gonna thank Katie for everything she's done for you, you ought to go somewhere more private than the line!" Don joked as he walked by.

They broke apart but stood without moving. The men jostled past, making ribald suggestions. Greg's hands were warm on her upper arms.

"Coast watchers confirmed we had 15 up today," Casey said with obvious relief as he paused nearby. "And I know the 182nd's CO was counting, too. That should keep Lard off our ass for awhile, at least until he figures out something else to harass us about." He jogged off to catch up with the other men.

"Cameron, none of this would have happened if it hadn't been for you and Tori. You're amazing. Have I told you that lately?"

"Not enough," she said, willingly drowning in the blue depths of his eyes. "Not nearly enough." Don's suggestion was starting to take root and she gave herself a mental shake. It had been more than two weeks since they'd shared anything beyond a few kisses and a little making out in his tent. The making out might have turned into something substantially more if Anderson hadn't interrupted them the first time – he'd been contritely apologetic - or if Jim hadn't interrupted them the second time. Jim had been neither contrite nor apologetic. He had, in fact, crossed his arms and laughed while she fumbled to pull her shirt back together and Greg had resignedly asked his exec what the hell he wanted. God knew those blue eyes and dimples made her clothes fall off. She just needed to be a little more discreet about where she allowed it to happen. His tent was not discreet.

Not that the flight line was any better. Micklin would have a cat if he thought she and Greg were fooling around near _his_ planes.

"So you changed your mind about taking it back?" She forced her thoughts onto a different track. Greg wrapped an arm around her waist and they walked slowly toward the Sheep Pen, neither of them in a hurry. The sound of a cheerful melee was already drifting out the windows. She treasured these few private moments after a mission, just the two of them, before she had to share him with his men again.

He shrugged. His grin made it clear the change in plans didn't bother him in the least.

"We caught some radio chatter on the way home and it sounds like they still can't find half the switches. Soooo . . . I didn't dare set down on Espritos when the 118 was still running around like a bunch of headless chickens." His grin broadened. "What else could I do? We'll just borrow it a while longer."

"A while longer?" Kate tried to sound severe but couldn't keep her mouth from turning up in a smile. "Like for the rest of the war? I knew you weren't going to give it back. Now I'm an accessory to grand theft Corsair."

"Really, Lieutenant Commander Halvorson? After all of this, _now_ you're getting a conscience? I think that's the least of your problems."

"And what do you think are the most of my problems?"

"I don't think you're getting enough – "

But then they were walking through the door to the Sheep Pen and whatever Greg thought she wasn't getting enough of was drowned out in a roar of high-spirited cheering as a whisky tumbler was pressed into her hands. Not for the first time, Kate found herself joining the Black Sheep in a whisky toast before 1200 hours.

 **XXX**

 **Sheep Pen, that evening**

"I thought Corporal Lund's eyes were going to fall out of his head." Kate laughed and sipped her drink.

"I thought my boobs were going to fall out of my dress!" Tori said dryly. "Lieutenant Commander Halvorson's strategy was spot on." She turned to Kate. "You were right. Men can only think about one thing at a time and Corporal Lund wasn't thinking about protocol for releasing prisoners."

"You should have seen her, Hutch," Kate said, lifting her glass in a toast to Tori. "When she jumped onto that chair and hiked up her skirt, I nearly bit through my lip trying not to laugh."

"Is that how you got Lund to unlock the cell block door?" Hutch asked. "All we heard was you barking orders."

"He couldn't see straight by the time Kate got done with him," Tori said.

"I know that feeling," Greg said and everyone laughed. Rain drummed on the roof as a squall passed over the island. The boys were gathered for a proper party to celebrate the success of the day's mission, the acquisition of a new plane and the delicious satisfaction of having pulled the wool over Lard's eyes again. There was a great deal of toasting to Kate and Tori as the girls of the hour. Hutch and TJ protested loudly, pointing out their parts in the caper and demanding equal recognition. Don told them bluntly if they were built like Kate and Tori, he'd be happy to give them equal time.

"When I heard your sweet tones this morning, Cameron, I knew something was going to happen," Greg said.

"I did, too, but I wasn't sure what," Kate admitted. "I was flying by the seat of my pants." She backhanded him lightly on the arm. "Don't ever, ever, ever make me do that again."

"I didn't make you do anything." A lazy grin spread across his face. "In fact, I remember telling you to stay out of trouble. You volunteered, remember?"

"Free help is usually worth as much as you paid for it," Kate returned.

"Send me the bill, sweetheart. I'll pay it in full." Greg refilled her glass. His eyes held hers a little longer than necessary and Kate felt a flush that had nothing to do with the whisky. The heat in his eyes as he handed her the glass completed the total ruination of her composure. She wondered if he knew what he could do to her with just a look. After months with the squadron, the boys' often raunchy teasing rolled off her like water off a duck's back but all it took from Greg was a look or a few murmured words to raise her internal temperature. She knew what he was like when he got an idea in his head. " _I'll pay it in full"_ indeed.

"How good is my alibi?" he asked, as if nothing had happened. Kate jumped at the chance to change the subject.

"It's as close to rock solid as we could get it," she said. "After you took off, Tori and I went to the hospital records room. I distracted the guard while she added your "Potential contagion, tested and released" forms to the recent intake files. We back-dated everything to show you and Hutch were held on a 24-hour medical observation but released late Wednesday. Even if Lard gets wind of you being on Espritos, the timeline would allow you to get back to La Cava in time to fly the mission. It should be clear you weren't anywhere around when the 118 had their, um, problems."

She rubbed the bridge of her nose and added, "The forms are signed by General Moore so they're official." She and Tori exchanged grins. "I don't think Lard will go looking, though, since he knows you were up with the Black Sheep this morning. I don't know why he was never informed you and Hutch were in the brig but I'm not looking that gift horse in the mouth. And Corporal Lund isn't going to tell anyone for fear of being reprimanded for not sending you to the infirmary in the first place."

"Uh-huh. Does Moore know he signed those forms?" Greg's amused smile said he already knew the answer.

Tori rolled her eyes.

"Not exactly," Kate said cautiously. "But even if it comes to that and Lard suspects they're forged, he knows better than to go waving them in Moore's face and demanding an explanation. The Black Sheep flew the mission with 15 planes, the objective was accomplished, no one died and the Marines got the credit. Moore's gonna tell Lard to take a hike if he fusses."

She took a drink before continuing.

"I think we've got all the bases covered although last I heard, Lard was throwing a rod about the Seabee unit that came in to break ground for a new hospital wing. He thinks they're there to dig up his office. He's probably still harassing the _Daily Bugle,_ trying to get hold of Ford Appleton. So I'd say he'll be distracted for a little while longer."

"You're good at this, Cameron. You ever consider espionage as second career?"

Kate leaned out of her chair and wrapped her fingers in the front of his shirt.

"I am not good at this. It scared me half to death and I am never doing anything like that again. You owe me, big time."

"You want a down payment on that bill?" Without waiting for an answer, Greg cupped the back of her head in his hand and pulling her to him, closed his mouth over hers. She jolted in surprise even as she relaxed into him. It was a slow, easy kiss but the pressure of his hand brooked no argument.

This was starting to become a habit with him, this kissing her like there was no one else around for miles, she thought absently. He obviously had no problem with it and damn, she realized, as her lips parted and the kiss deepened, maybe she didn't either. She'd never been shy been around him. Ever since the first time he put his hands on her, his touch was like a drug that dropped her defenses and shredded her inhibition. When it came to him, she wasn't sure she had any inhibitions left. Greg had a tendency to claim what was his in front of the boys and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Or wanted to do about it.

Reluctantly, she felt him break away. He pulled back, his eyes only inches from hers and Kate knew the heat she saw in them was reflected on her face. Small tremors ran through body, leaving it humming like a high tension wire. She grabbed the empty Scotch bottle and bolted for the bar, muttering something about needing a refill.

Watching her go, Jim chuckled and turned to Greg.

"You're playin' with fire, son."

Greg leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. A satisfied smile spread across his face.

"That's the idea."

 **XXX**

The party looked destined to continue into the wee hours. Around midnight, a thunderstorm rumbled overhead and couples who had previously left surged back into the building on a gust of rain-washed air, primed with a second wind for more drinking and dancing. The atmosphere was jubilant and reckless. And crowded.

Greg drained his glass and surveyed the high-spirited group of pilots, ground crew and nurses.

"You want a refill?" Kate lifted the bottle.

"That's not what I want."

She heard the inflection in his voice and swore her heart stopped, just for a few seconds.

"What do you want?" she asked cautiously, recognizing dangerous ground but unable to stop herself.

"To pay my bill. I owe you a lot."

She swallowed hard.

"It's raining. We can't go to the beach."

"Who said anything about the beach."

It wasn't a question and she realized getting an answer wasn't the point. His tone was quiet, even casual, but his steady gaze held her immobile. _Damn_. Months ago, before they'd made love the first time, before she'd come to terms with how much she wanted him, he'd been able to ignite her with just a look. She didn't think he realized it at the time, hadn't realized the effect those eyes and that easy grin had on her. Oh, he'd been quick to figure it out and when he had, it had been her ruination more than once. She could only hope she had the same effect on him. She tilted her head, looking up through her lashes, half innocence, half invitation. With satisfaction, she heard the quick intake of breath that marked his response. Two could play this game.

They rose as one, without speaking. Greg paused to let her step ahead of him and they made their way through the crowd without touching. They didn't need to, she could feel his presence as clearly as if his hand had been on her. A few whoops and catcalls followed them as they left the building. As usual, the Black Sheep were a little too interested in things that weren't any of their business.

Unsure of where they were headed, Kate paused outside the door in the pelting rain. Greg wrapped an arm around her waist and she shielded her face against the downpour and ran blindly next to him, disoriented until the rain suddenly ceased. The lingering scent of aftershave mingled with a hint of cigar smoke and damp dog told her they were in his tent. She shook water out of her hair and caught her breath. Meatball thumped his tail in greeting from his nest on the bunk.

Greg turned from pulling the tent's front flap shut. Wordlessly, he gripped her shoulders and kissed her. His mouth held none of the teasing sensuality it had in the Sheep Pen but something intimately rougher. A hard jolt of desire lanced through her belly. He pulled off the band holding her ponytail, tangled one hand in her loose hair and kissed her again, leaving no question about what he wanted. She answered in kind, breathless, tasting rain on his lips. His touch was like a match to tinder.

"No! We can't, not here!" she whispered, pulling back, desperate to put space between them.

"Yeah, sweetheart, we can." Amusement edged his words.

She saw the arousal in his eyes, felt it echo through her. Tonight, with the adrenaline rush of the last 12 hours surging through their blood, the flame ignited like wildfire. Kate took another step back, turning toward the door as if to leave but her feet refused to cooperate. Greg stepped up behind her and caught her around the waist.

"I want you, Katie," he whispered. The whisky roughness of his voice drove straight to the center of her being. His mouth lingered on her neck. "I want you here. Now."

"But . . . they . . ." Her hand fluttered helplessly in the direction of the Sheep Pen, whose occupants were all together too close for her comfort.

"I don't care." Greg's hands ran up and down her arms, his fingers warm through her rain-damp shirt.

"This isn't safe . . .," she tried again.

"Yes it is."

"But what if . . ."

"They won't."

"But they could . . . " She was starting not to care either and wasn't sure she wanted him to know that.

"Take off your boots, sweetheart. We're not going anywhere."

She bent to unlace her boots and toed them off as he did the same. Her mind whirled. Opportunities to be alone were rare, privacy was always a prime commodity and a combination of the two was nearly non-existent. As much as she'd drawn the line against this intensely private act taking place in the center of the base, she was helpless in his arms. When he held her, any sense of hesitation vanished. So did her good sense, she thought vaguely. She wasn't in a hurry to go looking for it.

She straightened and Greg wrapped his arms around her waist again. She shifted partially to meet his eyes and saw reflected in them the love that had made her do things no sane person would have done. That hot blue gaze was as powerfully intimate as anything he could do to her body because in it, she heard his silent question. If she was genuinely uncomfortable with what he wanted here, she could say no and walk away.

Kate could count the number of times they'd made love on one hand, always somewhere secluded, never on the base, although not for his lack of suggesting it. Her mind clung to the tiny shred of propriety that said good girls didn't do this sort of thing in the middle of a Marine Corps fighter base. Another voice, hot and hungry, reminded her bluntly that ship had sailed a long time ago.

Greg's hands moved under her shirt and his lips grazed the side of her neck. God, she wanted him. She moaned, tipping her head to bare more skin to his mouth. He chuckled softly at her wordless submission and she knew the die was cast. He unbuttoned her shorts, slowly drawing the zipper down, then pushed them over her hips to fall to the floor. She stepped out of them, felt his hands caress her bare thighs.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered, his voice a smoky assault on her senses as his fingers moved to the buttons on her shirt. He didn't have to ask, she thought. He knew what she wanted, knew every inch of her body as thoroughly as she did his, knew where to linger, how to draw out a caress with agonizing deliberation. He took his sweet time with the buttons and by the time her shirt joined her shorts on the floor, she thought steam must be rising from her skin. Rain drummed on the canvas overhead, turning into a silver veil as it cascaded beyond the mosquito netting.

She didn't answer his question, couldn't answer. This was crazy, doing this in an open-sided tent where anyone could walk by – or in – in a heartbeat. There wouldn't be anything fast or casual about it either, she knew. He never did anything halfway, especially, she'd discovered, when it came to her. Their time together was an escape from the war, something to be savored as they lost themselves in one another. Granted, the way she felt right now, with his hands skimming over her and the solid heat of him pressing against her hips, it wasn't going to take either of them long.

Outside, footsteps splashed past the door. A woman's soft laugh and a man's low voice – Ellen and Bobby Anderson - were momentarily clear, then faded. Kate froze. Greg didn't. He unfastened her bra and let the straps drop over her shoulders before tugging it off. She turned in his arms to face him, her arms around his neck, her lips barely skimming his, denying a deeper kiss. Through the ambient light filtering into the tent, she could see his mouth curve in a smile as he cupped her breasts. The roughness of his palms detonated something deep in the very center of her being.

"Do you want me to stop?" He traced her nipples with gentleness that belied the blunt strength of his hands. She tipped her face up to his, one word tumbling out on a whisper.

"No."

She didn't want him to ever stop. She wanted only to share the sacrament of their bodies, given in an affirmation of their love. Tomorrow would undoubtedly bring its own crisis but this night was theirs.

Kate unbuttoned his shirt and jerked it off, rising need pushing away any illusion of seduction. She covered his neck and chest with kisses, then dropped her hands lower, caressing the curve of his butt and pulling him against her, reveling in his body. Her fingers were quick on buckle and buttons and his trousers fell away. He stepped out of them and cradled her hips in both hands, pulling her against him as he took the kiss she'd been denying, hard, deep, his tongue on hers. His fingers slid under the band of her panties to squeeze her hips, then deftly skinned her out of the damp silk.

She should have felt exposed, vulnerable, but instead, the feel of his bare skin on hers left her glowing. Greg didn't speak, just lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather and laid her on his bunk. She was vaguely aware of Meatball's irritated snort as he jumped out of the way, then the rough weave of the blanket pressed against her back and the bunk's frame creaked ominously under their combined weight.

He braced on his forearms as he lowered to tease her, pulling away after the slightest touch, withholding what she ached for. Kate arched under him, pressing against his hard length and soaring on spirals of pleasure as she heard his breathing deepen. Without hesitating, she loosened the buttons on his skivvies and shoved them off. She took a few purely selfish moments to close her fingers around him, her own arousal heightening as he groaned, then hooked a leg over him and pulled him down. Now, he gave her the pressure she sought and her hips moved in a slow circle, the friction of his body against hers a delicious agony. She heard a crack, then wood splintering and one side of the bunk dropped precipitously.

"Stop," she whispered. "Greg, stop."

He made an inarticulate sound of frustration and she dug her nails into his back.

"Floor," she said. "Your bunk wasn't made for this."

They rolled off in a tangle of limbs and bedding. He pressed her onto her back and lowered his mouth to her belly. She felt the heat of his breath on her skin, then the scrape of razor stubble as his lips moved upward. His tongue flicked over one nipple, then the other. He took his time, alternating between tongue and teeth until her breath came as a moan.

He shifted to kiss the corner of her mouth.

"You need to be quieter than that, sweetheart."

She bit his shoulder, remembering exactly why making love in his tent was a bad idea. As if she cared.

"No promises," she managed.

They'd done this so few times, they were still discovering each other. She gave herself to him shamelessly, felt herself go molten as his hands owned her and they shared the shifting dance of pleasure given and received.

She was soaking before he slid his hand between her thighs, teasing lightly over damp curls, his fingers slick with her essence. A low whimper caught in her throat and she bit her lip in a futile effort to stay quiet as her hands clenched the blanket at her sides. She heard his breathing quicken, felt him stiffen even more against her thigh.

She knew he took pleasure from watching her rise on that slow fever pitch at his hand, knew his own satisfaction was inexplicably linked to her response. It was more than technical know-how, she thought. Any man with enough patience could eventually set off a chain reaction but Greg played her body with a level of skill that surpassed simple knowledge of female anatomy. In giving, he took, and lord, the man knew how to give. His self-control was staggering while hers frayed more with every lazy stroke of his fingers. She felt the climax pooling low in her center and with a monumental effort, shifted away from his hand.

"Not yet," she gasped, her body trembling. "I need you. . . I need all of you." There was no shyness in her voice. She needed him like she needed air. Whatever he gave her, she wanted to return it while they were joined as one.

He paused for a condom, then she wrapped her legs around him and surrendered to the breathless inevitability of his body in hers. He possessed her and she, him, both of them bound by a passion that would never be severed by time or circumstance.

He took her slowly at first, the heat building between them until any veneer of gentleness burned away. Raw need clawed at her as the demand of his thrusts drug them both toward oblivion. Rain pattered on the roof of the tent and cascaded over the sides, the soft ripple of running water wrapping them in the illusion of privacy.

Kate let herself go, surrendering to his uncompromising power as the long, rolling climax swept over her. Sensation rippled with growing intensity until it consumed her and she rose under him, unable to stop from crying out. Greg's mouth closed over hers, muffling her sobs. She was still writhing against him when he buried his face in her neck with a groan and drove into her a final time before release pounded through him.

Gasping and spent, she went limp. Seconds passed. Or maybe minutes. She could hear the faint beat of a Tommy Dorsey song from the Sheep Pen. Laughter. The screen door creaking open and shut. It was yards away, yet miles distant. She kissed the base of Greg's throat and he rolled to one side, pulling her close. They lay unspeaking, as the rain and the music poured down around them.

Staying here felt like tempting fate. She started to rise. Greg took her wrist, holding her in place. In the dim, rain-soaked light she could see his eyes tracing the lines of her body, a lazy, satisfied smile on his face. She was sure its twin was spread across her own. That thought made her smile even more.

"Where are you going?" He regarded her, still not letting go of her wrist.

"Back to bed?" She honestly wasn't sure.

"Meatball beat you to it."

Kate looked over her shoulder. Meatball was, indeed, sprawled atop the bunk again, looking smug at having reclaimed his spot.

"Damn dog," she said affectionately. "I meant _my_ bed. Where are my clothes?"

Greg ran his fingertips from her collarbone, between her breasts to her belly button.

"Stay with me tonight."

She blinked, surprised. She'd spent the night in his tent exactly twice before – once when she'd fallen asleep there by accident and another time when she'd been hurt, leaving her physically and emotionally fragile. Neither time had involved sex. They'd always made it a point to keep their relationship low key in terms of the base's public eye. While spending a whole night together wasn't a new concept, they'd drawn a line at co-habitating on the base. He was the CO. She was embedded press corps. By mutual agreement, they both held themselves to a higher standard. Okay, _she'd_ drawn the line. He would have been happy to have her there every night. In every sense of the word.

Her surprise must have shown. Greg laughed softly.

"Katie, I mean it. Stay with me." He winked. "I like waking up with you."

She didn't argue.

 **XXX**

She woke hours later, curled against his back. It was still dark, the sun not even a hint on the horizon and the air damp with the night. She snuggled closer, pressing her breasts against him and draping an arm around his waist. She heard the change in his breathing and knew he was awake. His fingers tangled with hers.

"You want something, Cameron?" he muttered sleepily.

"Maybe." She kissed the base of his neck and felt his body respond to her touch, an unmistakable shift of energy that made her smile. She wrapped a leg over his thigh.

"I thought you didn't want to do this on the base."

He was being deliberately difficult and she knew it.

"You thought wrong," she said.

 **XXX**

 _It wasn't often I got a chance to tell Greg he was wrong. I took full advantage of it. He wasn't kidding – he did like waking up with me. – Kate_

 **To be continued**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Crisis du jour**

 **Vella La Cava**

 **VMF 214 HQ**

"Greg! Greg, wake up! We've got a problem!"

Casey's voice yanked aside curtains of sleep. Kate blinked, unsure if she was dreaming and reliving the scene when Casey had woken her up with the same announcement, or if this was a new chapter in the never-ending crisis that was life with the Black Sheep. She extended her left hand. Her fingers met Greg's bare chest. She extended her right hand. Floor boards and a tangle of blankets. Oh. Yeah. They'd ended up on the floor. God. And how.

Muttered swearing issued from the doorway as Casey fought his way through the tangle of canvas and mosquito netting. Sun spilled into the tent, pearly gold in the dawn mist. Not dreaming, Kate decided. She did a hasty inventory of her person. She was wearing panties and one of Greg's T-shirts. Her body still hummed from their recent loving and she had only a dim memory of pulling clothes on. This was exactly why she preferred waking up with him off the base. The beach might be lacking a few amenities but they'd never been woken by anything more than curious shore birds. Thanks to those glorious, sensual mornings, she'd achieved an unexpected level of comfort with being nude outdoors. Her modesty hadn't exactly returned in leaps and bounds just because they'd stayed on the base last night, she realized, although that decision had been worth every exquisite moment. No regrets even though it looked like she was going to pay for it.

She looked up at Casey, who stood framed in the doorway, grinning. The boys didn't hesitate to walk in and out of one another's tents like rooms in a frat house and not even their CO's was off limits. She tugged the T-shirt down. Casey surveyed her rumpled appearance and the bedding on the floor. She glared, daring him to comment. He did.

"Morning, Katie," he said. "Looks like – "

"Never mind what it looks like," she cut him off. She knew exactly what it looked like and so would anyone else.

"Um, Greg, sorry to wake you but we got a problem," Casey repeated.

Greg rolled to a sit.

"What the hell?" he grumbled, looking at his watch. "It's 0600. How can there be a problem? We don't have a mission today and after last night, no one's conscious yet."

"Lard just radioed," Casey said with the air of someone delivering an executioner's sentence. "He wants to know how we suddenly achieved combat status the same day a brand new plane disappeared from Espritos. He's coming here to talk to you."

Greg scowled.

"Why?"

Casey shot him a look that said he should know better.

"Because he's convinced you know something about it."

"Why would he think that?"

Kate was amazed at the degree of innocence the man could conjure at a second's notice. No wonder he was such a good poker player. He'd need every card he could put on the table to get out of this, she thought.

"Yeah, well, he'll be here at 1100 hours and he wants answers." Casey looked like he might start drinking antacid for breakfast. Kate didn't blame him. The last 72 hours had been nothing but one crisis du jour after another.

Greg muttered a string of profanity and stood up. Kate was relieved he'd put his skivvies back on at some point. It wasn't like what they'd been doing last night was a secret but she didn't think they needed to advertise it either. He reached down and pulled her to her feet. She smoothed the T-shirt over her thighs and looked around for her clothes. She'd just located her bra when Jim stepped into the tent behind Casey. He took one look at the scattered bedding and clothing and grinned unapologetically.

"Morning, darlin'. Thought I heard some howling last night." He didn't give Kate a chance to reply but sobered and addressed Greg. "What are we gonna do? Lard's gonna see that shiny new bird on the line and the jig is up. He'll bust us all down to private."

"We'll be lucky if he stops there." Greg reached for his fatigues. "Let's go, Cameron. We'll have breakfast in bed another time."

Jim and Casey snorted. Greg winked at her. Kate sighed. It was going to be another day in paradise.

 **XXX**

 _I pulled on my shorts while Jim and Casey pretended not to watch and I wondered what it would be like to wake up with Greg in a real bed in a room with a lock on the door and know that no one was going to try killing or court martialing him that day. Or walking in on us while a girl was still glowing from her man's touch. I got to find out, eventually, but it was years down the road. - Kate_

 **XXX**

Number 403 basked in the sunshine, her glossy blue paint gleaming like a peacock's plumage among the 214's collection of war weary fighters. Greg studied the sun-faded, coral-dust blasted surface of his own plane sitting next to 403, sifting through ideas in his mind. It would be a sacrilege to mar the factory perfection of this newest addition to their flock but unless they could make 403 look like she'd been assigned to the unit since its inception, she'd be snatched away and they'd be right back where they started. Or worse. Probably worse.

He walked around his bird, taking in the oil smears, the streaks where the paint had oxidized, the beer can patches and general wear and tear from too many missions and no time for aesthetics.

Casey and Jim had accompanied him to the line and by now, the rest of the squadron was aware of the pending crisis. The men gathered around, muttering in anticipation of how they were going to evade Colonel Lard's meddling this time. In the distance, thunder rumbled, the forerunner of a fast-moving squall off shore.

"You want me to take her up for a few hours?" Jim asked. "I could do a little sightseeing, keep her off Lard's radar. He can't cuss us out for stealing something if he can't find it."

"No." Greg shook his head. "I wouldn't want you up there without a wingman and then we'd be two planes short when Lard gets here. Besides, that's exactly what he'd expect us to do and we can't afford the fuel to keep you up there. There's no telling how long he'd stay here and wait for you to set down."

The men stood in contemplative silence. Greg felt rather than heard Kate join them and turned to see her stop at his shoulder. Face washed and hair neatly combed back, she'd managed to procure a mug of coffee and was nursing it with sleepy-eyed satisfaction. She cradled the white porcelain between her hands, her mouth quirked in a quiet smile, like a cat who'd been skimming the cream. He knew the coffee was not solely responsible for that satiated look. She met his gaze and subtly raised her eyebrows.

"Good morning," she said politely. As if she hadn't spent the night in his arms, driving him nearly mad with the scent of her skin and the supple curves of her body. Damn. Watching her, so cool and composed and acting for all the world like this were nothing but another mission briefing, he saw the unarguable intensity that enabled her to sabotage the planes on Espritos and spring him and Hutch. She was one of a kind. He cleared his throat.

"I've got an idea," he announced to the assemblage. "It's not much but under the circumstances . . ." His voice trailed off. Those circumstances were only going to get worse if they didn't pull this off.

"An idea? Have you forgotten what happened the last time you said that?" Kate's tone was etched with dry humor. "Remember where that got you?"

"I remember exactly where that got me." He slanted her a look and was rewarded to see a soft blush rise in her cheeks. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told her she was amazing. She was. And not just her body, although scenes from the previous night played through his mind like a private newsreel. That was the thing about her, he thought. She put her heart into everything she did, no matter what it was, and while she wouldn't hesitate to question some of his decisions, she'd have his six the whole time she was doing it.

"So let's hear it," she continued. "I know it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission but I don't think Lard's gonna buy it when it comes to stealing aircraft."

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law," Greg said firmly. "I'm not giving it back."

Kate gave a little snort and muttered something that sounded like, "I knew it."

He turned to the men.

"The best place to hide something is in plain sight. Casey, go to the hospital and get all the talcum powder they can spare. Bring Tori and Dee back if they aren't on duty, we're gonna need all hands on deck. Jim, you go to the mess and get a couple of tins of cooking oil."

He looked at Kate. She studied him with an amused expression, clearly trying to discern where this was going.

"Cameron, grab some steel wool off Hutch's work bench and a handful of dirt and get up in the cockpit. Put a little wear and tear on that seat cushion and the headrest. Rub the shine off anything you could see from the ground. Bragg, I need you and French to rig up a portable fan, something with enough juice to keep sand in the air. There should be a motor in the mechanics' shed and see if you can find some powdered graphite while you're there. TJ, get us a bunch of rags – old skivvies will work fine." He paused. This plan was insane but that had never stopped him before. "Where the hell's Boyle? Somebody send him and Anderson down to the beach for a couple of buckets of sand. I'm going to wake up Hutch and Micklin and we're gonna put some age on this bird before Lard gets here."

The men dispersed hastily. Casey revved the engine of a nearby jeep and took off for the hospital. Jim headed to the mess. Jerry and Don bent their heads together, sketching out the schematic for a jury-rigged blower on scraps of paper in the mechanics' shed. Kate found a pair of gloves and a wad of steel wool among the tools scattered on the workbench. TJ tossed her a can to scrape up some dirt before he trotted toward the communal clothesline, yelling for both Bobbys to get their asses out of bed.

Greg took a moment to admire Kate's backside as she maneuvered onto 403's starboard wing and swung into the cockpit like it was all in a day's work. If they couldn't pull this off, he thought, he was headed right back to the brig and this time it would take more than a war correspondent and a Navy nurse to get him out. Resolutely, he headed to the mechanics' shed to help Jerry and Don.

 **XXX**

 _Any poker player knows it's not always about the cards you're holding. Sometimes it's about the cards your opponent thinks you're holding. All I had to do was convince Lard we didn't have any cards he wanted. It was time for the biggest bluff of my life. - Greg_

 **XXX**

During her time with the 214, Kate thought she'd seen it all. The amount of clandestine wheeling and dealing Greg and his boys routinely engaged in would have set the Marine Corps top brass on their ear if they knew the half of it. But the under-the-table scams for engine oil, parts, Scotch, toilet paper, soap and a myriad of other supplies paled in the face of what they were about to pull.

She'd barely finished scuffing the shiny leather upholstery in the cockpit when Casey returned. Dee was riding shotgun while Tori clung to several crates of supplies chucked haphazardly into the back of the jeep. They'd picked up Jim at the mess and he rode with his feet dangling over the side, two large tins of cooking oil balanced on his lap.

TJ ran up, panting, with a ragged armload of T-shirts and men's drawers. Kate was quietly relieved she chose to hang her washing on a line inside her tent. It was subject to enough of the men's scrutiny the way it was without being used for whatever Greg had in mind.

His intentions quickly became apparent. He splashed a frayed T-shirt with cooking oil, dribbled it with a few drops of the wicked black liquid in Micklin and Hutch's soaking tank, then swiped it across an expanse of 403's pristine wing. In his hand, he mixed sand from Boyle's bucket with a dollop of talc and a pinch of powdered graphite and standing closely, blew it onto the oil-slick metal. The powder stuck, instantly dulling the glossy blue paint and giving it the appearance of being sun-faded and pitted by coral dust. Greg smiled.

"That'll work, we just can't let Lard get too close to her."

"You let me and Hutch take care of that, Major," Micklin said. "This here's the first brand new bird this unit's ever seen. I ain't about to let no rear area brass polisher snatch her away from me. Besides, you let Wiley fly something more than a tin can patched together with baling wire and the kid might turn out to be a decent pilot." He snorted and stomped away, muttering, "Can't believe I just said that."

Greg turned back to the assembled men.

"All right, you meatheads. I want this plane coated with oil from nose to tail. Don't forget the prop and the landing gear Bragg, you and French got that fan rigged up yet?"

In later years, Kate would remember the atmosphere of unquestioning cooperation during that morning's frantic activity. It reminded her of nothing so much as school boys playing a joke on their unsuspecting headmaster. Like so many things the Black Sheep did, they treated it like a lark, refusing to acknowledge the dark reality of the squadron being broken apart if the charade failed. And like so many things they did, they charged into it with high spirits and a complete refusal to consider the possibility of failure.

Once the plane's exterior had been coated with a blend of cooking oil and old motor oil, Jerry and Don flipped the switch on a makeshift fan made from an old prop wired to a small gas powered motor. Jim and TJ, both wearing flight goggles and bandanas tied over their faces like bandits from the old west, stood in the slipstream created by the spinning blades and tossed a mix of talcum powder, powdered graphite and beach sand into the air. As Jerry and Don maneuvered the slowly spinning blades around the plane, 403's gleaming finish was reduced to a faded, battle weary patina no one would look twice at.

 **XXX**

Greg leaned against a jeep parked in the shade of a palm tree and surveyed the scene in front of him.

Like everything else at the 214, the planes weren't afraid to show their battle scars. They, and the men who flew them, had an air of rugged use that gave little heed to cosmetic appearances. From the patched canvas on the tents to the beer can patches on the planes, the base radiated a sense of make do or do without. At first glance, there wasn't a single thing here that looked shiny or new. If Greg had anything to say about it, there wouldn't be a second glance.

A quiet undercurrent of tension hummed along the line but it was masked by mechanics yelling back and forth as they went about the day's maintenance. Nearby, Kate, Dee and Tori were playing three-on-three volleyball with TJ, Jim and Casey.

Hutch and Micklin busied themselves on one plane with single-minded intent. Camouflage netting had been draped over most of the airframe, obscuring the number painted on its side, although due to the amount of coral dust damage to the wings and fuselage, it was nearly impossible to read in the first place. The engine cowling had been pulled and a scattering of tools was spread on a tarp under the plane's nose next to a growing array of greasy, tired-looking parts. The men appeared to be dismantling the power plant piece by piece. Anyone who knew what they were looking at would immediately recognize the mismatched collection of hardware as the internal workings of an engine from a jeep that had been totaled during an air raid. Greg was counting on Lard not knowing what he was looking at.

In the distance, thunder hinted at the storm growing closer. The girls' euphoric shouts indicated the volleyball game was going well for them. Just another day at the 214. Nothing to see here, move along. Greg smiled with satisfaction. Exactly what he wanted.

He looked up at the buzz of an incoming plane.

"Lard's here," he called to anyone within earshot. "Stay frosty. I'll handle it."

Colonel Lard's L5 touched down, bounced as the pilot hit a rough spot, threatened to go airborne again and finally taxied to a stop. The colonel climbed out and yanked off his mae west. With hands on his hips, he stomped the length of the line. Then he stomped back.

Greg pushed off the jeep and strode to meet him. He snapped off a crisp salute.

Lard returned the salute, scowling.

"Colonel! How the hell are ya?" Greg beamed.

Lard didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"How many planes did you put in the air yesterday?"

"Fifteen, sir. Anything less wouldn't be combat status."

"Don't quote regs to me, Boyington. I know you've been flying with less than that but yesterday my spotters miraculously counted 15. What have you got to say about that?"

"Maybe your spotters have learned how to count," Greg said with a straight face. "Sir."

Lard fumed.

"How many airworthy planes do you have on this line?"

"Fifteen, sir. I'm sure you could count that high yourself."

Greg thought he could hear Lard's teeth grinding. He forced a bland smile. On the volleyball court, Kate's voice ring out, "Eight – three!" followed by the sound of a ball being served.

"Plus that one," he said helpfully and pointed to Boyle's lopsided train wreck sitting along the tree line. "It would be airworthy if we could get a new engine. And landing gear."

"I'm not interested in your train wrecks. Four days ago, you flew a mission with 14 planes. Three days ago you flew a mission with 14 planes. Then you had two days off and yesterday you flew a mission with a full complement. By coincidence, yesterday morning VF 118 reported one of their planes missing off the strip on Espritos. Not only was one of their brand new birds gone, the entire remaining wing had been sabotaged. Seems like somebody pulled the main switches and hid them so well they still can't find two of them. You want to explain that, Major?"

"I'd love to put your mind at ease, sir, but I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Where were you Wednesday and Thursday?" Lard snarled.

Greg didn't miss a beat.

"I was in the infirmary on Espritos until late Wednesday, then back on La Cava for the mission Thursday." _Or back on La Cava after the mission. Close enough._

"The infirmary?" Lard took a step back. "What's wrong with you?"

"Suspected case of Influenza H3N9. Very contagious virus, sir. I believe the paperwork is on file in the hospital. The nurses who took care of me were very thorough about the paperwork."

"Never mind the paperwork! How'd you put 15 planes in the air if you were off the flight roster?"

"It turned out to be a scare, a false positive or something. I was cleared late Wednesday. Captain Gutterman and Lieutenant Casey can verify I flew with the Black Sheep."

Lard sputtered incoherently.

"I know you flew with the Black Sheep! But – you – infirmary - 15 – how -!"

Greg smiled patiently. He could see the gears whirring in Lard's mind as the man tried to snare him in a tangle of conflicting details. Thank God for Kate and Tori covering his butt with their back-dated reports but they weren't out of this yet.

"Would you like to talk to either of my execs? They're right here." He jabbed a thumb toward the volleyball court where Jim was making an obscene gesture toward the girls. Kate, Dee and Tori were near Olympic-level talent when it came to sand volleyball. The boys didn't stand a chance and everyone involved knew it.

"What are those nurses doing here?" Lard seemed to have temporarily forgotten the issue at hand.

Kate would laugh to know her identity as a nurse was still intact, Greg thought.

"Those girls? They come down from the hospital to play volleyball with the men a couple of times a week. It's good for morale."

Kate set the ball and Tori used her height advantage to pound it over the net. TJ dived belatedly and missed. The girls danced around, high-fiving in a circle of tan legs and snug T-shirts. Colonel Lard gaped, then he remembered why he was there. Turning to Micklin he demanded, "How long have these planes been in service, Sergeant?"

"We got us a bunch of planes out here. You got a particular one in mind?" Micklin gave his cigar a vigorous chomp as he stepped protectively in front of 403, blocking Lard from getting any closer.

"This one," Lard said, narrowing his eyes.

Greg held his breath. From this vantage point, there was nothing about 403 to indicate it was anything but just another hard-used fighter.

"It's been in service long enough to have the shine knocked off it. 'Cept for those." Micklin gestured toward the tail where two brand new beer can patches gleamed through the camo netting.

"That's not what I asked."

"Does this here plane look like it just rolled off the assembly line?" Micklin countered, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

Lard contemplated the Corsair's generally dispirited air. He stepped in for a closer look.

"Fire it up!" Micklin called up to Hutch. Lard hastily stepped back.

In the cockpit, Hutch engaged the starter. Nothing happened for a long moment, then the prop gave an anemic spin and the engine emitted a series of weak bangs. The prop struggled to pick up momentum as the engine wheezed half-heartedly then ground to a halt, belching white smoke.

Micklin let out a string of epithets and hurled his wrench to the ground. As he spun to face Lard, his sleeve brushed against the joint where the port wing connected to the fuselage. A small patch of shiny blue paint appeared but he ignored it.

"See! This here is what I'm talking about! You keep sending Boyington and them college boys up there day after day and every time they come back – if they come back – something else is broke that we gotta fix with parts we ain't got!" Spit flew.

Lard took another step back.

"I'll need to review the requisition forms Major Boyington has submitted," he said tightly. "The 214 isn't entitled to anything more than any other squadron in this theater and all the others seem to be getting along just fine with their allotments."

"No other squadron in the theater is doing what these college boys do, either," Micklin snarled with pride, punctuating his words with violent jabs of his cigar. "There ain't no better bunch of flyboys this side of Pearl."

Greg rubbed a hand over his upper lip to hide a smile. Not only was Micklin carrying the day, he was enjoying the chance to give the brass a piece of his mind. Lard alternated between staring at Micklin and staring at the plane. His eyes narrowed. He stepped forward.

"What's that?" He pointed at the spot where blue paint gleamed brightly against the faded color scheme. "Why is –"

He didn't get a chance to finish. From the cockpit, Hutch released the oil sump. There was an audible pop and oil gushed out in a thick, amber waterfall, splashing on the packed dirt below and splattering Lard's shoes and trousers.

"Sorry about that, Colonel." Hutch leaned around the canopy and shrugged cheerfully. "Hose musta given out. The heat and humidity are really hard on 'em. Shoulda replaced it before now."

Lard was too busy backpedaling and shaking his trouser leg, which was now liberally splashed with engine oil, to answer.

"Yeah, Colonel, you review those requisitions. I reckon maybe you've missed a few along the way." Micklin jammed his cigar back in his mouth and picked up the wrench. "I got more things to do than stand around here, jawin'."

Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Greg kept his face impassive as he scanned the approaching clouds. Hutch had taken Lard's mind off the mysterious blue patch but a tropical downpour would wash off the rest of the temporary camouflage in about five minutes.

"Sir?" The L5's pilot approached. "Espritos just radioed. That's a good-sized storm front moving in. If we're going to beat it home, we need to leave now."

Lard glared at Greg, as if this, too, was his fault. Greg smiled politely.

"You're welcome to stay and enjoy the 214's hospitality, Colonel."

"I don't know how you pulled this off, Boyington, but I'm not done with you," Lard fumed.

"I'm sure you're not, sir." Greg's grin was angelic.

The colonel jabbed a finger toward him.

"I'm going back to Espritos and check with the hospital administrator. There'd better be paperwork on file to back up your cockamamie claim about H6N12 or whatever disease you allegedly had. If I find out you or any of your men were anywhere near that air strip yesterday morning, there's gonna be hell to pay."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Greg said agreeably. _Besides, it's not the men you need to worry about_.

As if on cue, more whooping and hollering issued from the volleyball court. The girls were dancing around again, celebrating another point. The boys looked thoroughly beaten. Greg wasn't sure this volleyball game was doing much for the men's morale although the girls looked absolutely delighted. And it was keeping Kate out of trouble, which meant a lot these days.

"And get those nurses out of here! Female personnel don't belong on a fighter base," Lard snarled.

"That'll be a little harder, sir," Greg mused. "We try to run them off but they keep coming back. They seem to like it here."

"Sir! We really need to get going!" the pilot called.

Lard glared at Greg. He glared at the assorted Black Sheep who had seemingly come out of the woodwork. He glared at Kate, Tori and Dee. With a final scowl, he turned and stomped away. Within minutes, the L5 barreled down the strip and lifted off.

Greg let out his breath and walked to the edge of the volleyball court.

"Drinks are on TJ," he announced.

"Pappy!" TJ protested. "Why me?"

"Cuz it's your bird we just busted our hump to save. Show a little appreciation or I'll take it back!"

"Hey, Boyle, I'll let you fly it if you buy the first round," TJ joked.

They headed for the Sheep Pen as the rain began to fall.

 **XXX**

 **Summer 1960**

 **Greg and Kate Boyington's home near Lake Tahoe**

The flames of the bonfire leapt and danced, sending sparks soaring toward the indigo canopy of the sky. The sun was slipping behind the Sierras, etching the men and women gathered around the fire in shadowy relief.

Kate sat with her back against the trunk of a fallen tree, just close enough to the fire to feel its warmth as coolness crept in with the evening. Greg sat next to her, an arm draped lazily over her shoulders, firelight sculpting the handsome lines of his face and making her heart swirl with memories. They'd been through so much, that horrific day in 1944 when Jim Gutterman met her on the line to tell her Greg had been shot down, the agonizing months that followed when he'd been held a POW and she didn't know if he lived or died, the birth of their daughter, Joy, the euphoria of his return and the arrival of their son Jim exactly nine months later, their marriage, the nomadic years of continued military service and now, settling into civilian life to run a charter air service.

Memories had bubbled to the surface all week as the reunion brought them all together again. She looked around the group, smiling as she remembered the youthful faces of the boys she'd served with that summer in the South Pacific. The boys who'd teased and flirted and turned a correspondent's assignment into relationships that became the cornerstone of her life.

The women, too, with whom she'd shared cofidences, Scotch, clothing and an unbreakable network of support amidst the trials of war. Men and women alike, they were the friends who'd stood by her on Jan. 3, 1944, when she'd found herself alone and pregnant. They were the men and women who came home and put the war behind them as they started new lives after serving their country. They were the greatest generation.

She hadn't seen many of them since the autumn of 1945 when they gathered for her and Greg's wedding before striking off to the far corners of the globe. Some stayed in the military, others returned to the pursuit of pre-war dreams or struck out on new ventures. There were marriages. Families. Kids.

Unsatisfied with exchanging only brief glimpses of their lives through Christmas cards and chance visits, Kate had talked Greg into hosting a Black Sheep reunion the year after they moved to Tahoe Vista. It hadn't taken much talking.

"Anything for you, Cameron," he'd said and she launched enthusiastically into a campaign of letters and phone calls that brought them together again for a week of reminiscing.

She followed the faces laughing in the glow of the firelight.

John and Tori Hutchinson married only a month after her and Greg. They had a daughter and two sons and were co-owners of a machine shop and garage in the upper peninsula of Michigan. Tori put nursing behind her when she blossomed as an artist specializing in World War II nostalgia pieces, along with helping Hutch run their family business.

Jim Gutterman, the dark-haired, hot-headed Texan, married her sister, Sarah. Jim was a partner in an ag aerial service while Sarah continued to raise dogs for the military and served as a consultant for the Army's war dog program. They lived in Oklahoma with a son, a daughter and a constantly changing number of large, slightly crazy, dogs.

Larry and Dee Casey were married on Pearl while the ink was still drying on Japan's Instrument of Surrender aboard the _USS Missouri_. They had three daughters, each as tow-headed as Larry and as fiery as Dee. Like her and Greg, the Caseys continued their military career briefly. Now they lived in Tulsa, not far from Jim and Sarah. Larry worked as the parts manager of a local implement dealer where Kate suspected he still put his black market trading skills to use to locate hard-to-find parts at sensible prices for area farmers. Dee served as a nursing administrator at a local hospital.

Bobby Anderson married Ellen Morgan, the buxom, auburn-haired pin-up from New York who had done Kate's hair the night of that long ago party on La Cava, the first time Greg made it clear how he felt about her. The Andersons had four children – twin boys and two daughters. Bobby was in charge of the music and drama departments in a high school in Rochester, N.Y., where they'd lived since coming home from the war. Ellen was delighted to be a stay-at-home mom.

"Someone has to keep the kids from setting the house on fire," she said firmly, "and Bob can't be trusted."

Bobby Boyle had shown up with a vivacious brunette on his arm and proudly introduced her as his wife of six months. They lived in California, where he worked in advertising sales and she did hair at an upscale salon catering to the Hollywood elite.

"They say there's someone for everyone," Jim mused. "Even you, Boyle."

Jerry Bragg returned to his native Indiana, where he was a columnist and sports writer for the _Indianapolis Star_.

"You inspired me to go back to college and get a degree in journalism," he told Kate, adding he was still single but hoped to change that before the next reunion.

"Should we have a reunion next year or in five years?" she'd joked.

TJ Wiley and his wife Helen had three boys, each with Helen's lovely dark coloring and TJ's endless charm. Helen was Don French's little sister. She and TJ met at Greg and Kate's wedding and been married themselves a year later. TJ taught history and coached basketball at a high school in Philadelphia while Helen stayed home with their kids, who, she added, where just as likely to set the house on fire as Bobby Anderson's brood.

Don French brought his bride, an ephemerally beautiful girl from New Zealand who he'd met in the final days of the war in the Southwest Pacific. He, too, had returned to school, studied horticulture and agronomy, and now operated a thriving landscaping business in Atlanta, Ga., where the couple lived with their son and daughter.

Andy Micklin had come to the reunion, too, chomping on a cigar with his arm around the waist of a plump, cheerful woman he introduced as Ellie, his wife of 10 years. Ellie immediately fit in with the boys' wives even though she was 20 years their senior. Her grandmotherly appearance disguised a wicked sense of humor and more than once she'd reduced the group to howls of helpless laughter as she recalled incidents from the early days of her and Andy's marriage. It was clear the gruff master sergeant had met his match. Kate thought he'd never looked happier.

"I remember everything about 403," TJ said, leaning forward in the lawn chair to nudge a log deeper into the fire with his boot. "Especially the party after Lard left that morning. It cost me about two weeks' pay." He turned to Helen. "Those guys drank like they were gonna stop making Scotch."

"It tasted better when you were buying," Jim said.

"She was the one you were flying when you made ace, right?" Kate recalled. She shifted and Greg adjusted his arm. She leaned against his warm bulk, remembering all the nights they'd spent sitting around fires on the beach with the Black Sheep, celebrating successful missions or just the joy of being alive.

"Sure was." TJ shook his head. "That was in the summer of '44 when Jim and I were with the Fighting Gryphons on Rendova. When I climbed out of that cockpit for the last time, I walked away and never thought I'd see her again. Can't believe she's still airworthy."

"That's a stretch," Hutch said. "She needs a complete engine rebuild."

"Hey, TJ, you want to take her up again, for old time's sake?" Greg asked, chuckling.

"If it's all the same to you, Pappy, no!" TJ's emphatic reply was underlain with humor.

Helen flashed a generous smile and said, "Please, Greg, don't let him near that thing. He backed our Buick into a tree just last week."

"Wiley, you're still a menace." Jim shook his head. "Helen, I don't know how you put up with him."

"The same way I put up with you." Sarah gave her husband a friendly shove. "One day at a time." Jim leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Micklin asked. "Kinda big for a lawn ornament. Ain't nobody gonna know how to fly an antique like that no more unless it's one of these overgrown college boys."

"Andrew Micklin!" Ellie chided. "You be nice." She looked at Greg and Kate. "He was so excited to get the invitation to this reunion, it's all he talked about for months." She squeezed her husband's arm affectionately. "I think he missed his college boys."

Micklin snorted and grumbled while everyone laughed. Bobby Anderson opened a nearby cooler and distributed another round of beer.

"Whatever you do with it, it needs some kick-ass nose art," Don said. "I bet Tori could whip up a design. Maybe Kate as a pin-up girl. That would be classy."

"Shut up!" Kate said. "My days of being a pin-up are long gone."

"Katie, you haven't changed a bit. Besides, I bet Greg still remembers how you looked back then, with those long legs and – "

"Seriously! Shut up!" Kate laughed. "I'm a respectable married woman now."

"Let's get it airworthy first," Greg said, "then we'll think about making it pretty." He dismissed it with a wave of his hand but Kate caught the thoughtful look in his eye. _Oh for heaven's sake._

"What _are_ you going to do with it, Greg?" Casey asked. "Maybe teach Kate to fly?"

"Not happening," Kate said firmly. "There might be another Boyington in the cockpit someday but it's not going to be me."

"You wouldn't have to fly it, darlin'," Jim said. "I'm guessing you and Greg could put those broad wings to good use without ever leaving the ground." He grinned wickedly. "It would surprise me if you haven't already."

This drew a round of laughter and Kate threw a pinecone at him. It hit him square in the chest and bounced harmlessly away.

"You're still a pain in the ass, Gutterman. You must be damn good in bed because I don't know what else my sister sees in you."

"We got us a couple of kids, don't we? They didn't happen by immaculate conception, right, Sair?"

Sarah rolled her eyes, laughing, and gave Jim a sideways look.

"Speaking of kids," Tori craned her neck to look through the dusk toward the lawn in front of the rambling white Victorian house. The flicker of a second fire could be seen with a number of figures moving around it. "Are you sure they're all right up there by themselves?"

"It's been six days and we haven't lost any of 'em yet," Hutch assured her. "It's the last night everyone's gonna be here. They deserve to have their own party and the older ones are good at taking care of the younger ones. Besides, they don't want to sit around and listen to Wiley's war stories any more than we do."

"They're a bunch of teenagers," Tori said archly. "And don't forget for a minute we know what their fathers were like when they weren't much older."

"You've got a point." Hutch grinned.

"Don't worry about them." Greg tossed another log on the fire and sparks shot upward like fireflies. "If they haven't killed each other yet, they're not going to start now."

"Think I should check on them?" Kate asked. She started to stand up. Greg pulled her back down.

"They're fine, Katie. I'm sure Joy and little Jim have everything under control." He named their two kids, Joyce "Joy," almost 17, and Jim, 15.

Kate caught the look in his eye and raised her eyebrows. He winked. Leaning in toward his ear, she said quietly, "I doubt Joy is anywhere near that bonfire and neither is Andy Hutchinson and we both know it."

"She's not a little girl anymore." Greg's tone was resigned, as if he'd turned around to suddenly find his daughter had become a young woman without asking permission. "She pushes the envelope occasionally but she's got good sense. She'll be all right."

"Her father stole an airplane right out from under the Navy's nose – don't talk to me about good sense," Kate snorted but sank back onto the blanket and settled herself against his shoulder.

"Her father couldn't have stolen it without her mother's help," he pointed out. "When you walked into the brig that morning, I swore to God if we got out of that war alive, I was going to marry you."

"Come on, Kate, we want to hear how you and Tori did that again," Anderson called from the other side of the dancing flames.

Someone passed Kate another beer and she launched into a re-telling, finding none of the escapade's details had dimmed over the years.

 **XXX**

 _If I'd known what else was going on that evening, I might have bothered to go check on the kids. Or maybe not. It wasn't like they were doing anything wrong and Greg was right, you have to let them grow up some time. Joy had good sense and we both trusted her. As much as you can trust an almost 17-year-old girl but then, her parents didn't really have any room to talk. - Kate_

 **To be continued . . . one more chapter to wrap everything up with a big fat bow on it!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: The Legacy**

 **Black Sheep reunion, 1960**

 **Tahoe Vista, Nevada  
**

Joyce Elizabeth Boyington didn't want the reunion to end. It had been so wonderful to finally meet the men and women her parents served with in the war. Of course, she already knew Jim Gutterman, he and Aunt Sarah were married, and Larry and Dee Casey were almost like another uncle and aunt. But now she could put faces to the names she'd heard for years – French, Boyle, Anderson and all the others. Especially TJ Wiley, since her parent's favorite expression when something went wrong was "Damnit, TJ!"

Growing up as the daughter of Greg Boyington and Kate Cameron, the Black Sheep had always been larger than life. Daddy was a war hero and Mama was a famous correspondent. Even if they didn't talk about it a lot, that didn't change who they were. Pictures her mom had taken of her dad and the men of VMF 214 decorated the business office of Boyington Charter Air Service. She'd helped hang them when they moved here after Daddy left the Marines. Her parents told her and her brother, Little Jim – so-called to differentiate him from Uncle Jim even though he absolutely hated being called "little," so she did it every chance she got – lots of stories about the famous squadron but Joy got the distinct feeling they weren't telling _all_ the stories.

That changed when the men came for the reunion. The adults had been so caught up in the euphoria of reminiscing, at first they didn't notice when Joy and the other kids listened, wide-eyed, to their tales from the South Pacific. Mama even let her have her first taste of Scotch to toast the Black Sheep – both those who came to the reunion and those who hadn't come back from the war – on the first night of the gathering. She _was_ almost 17, after all. Joy drank it, determined not to make a face even though the amber liquid burned her throat. Her mother had laughed gently and said, "It's an acquired taste, sweetie, kind of like your father when we first met."

After that first night, the adults still told lots of stories but they were more careful about who was listening. Joy particularly wanted to hear what they talked about when they thought all the kids were watching the television or tearing around outdoors with the dogs and the horses. More than once, she and KatieDee Hutchinson snuck onto the staircase landing near the living room or stood in the kitchen with their ears pressed to a crack in the door and eavesdropped unashamedly.

KatieDee's mom caught them at it once and sent them outside with a mild scolding but the risk was worth it. The adults' conversations ricocheted wildly from practical jokes the men had played on each other to reliving the missions they'd flown and eventually, to their romantic entanglements. They didn't go into detail but they didn't have to. Hearing her parents joke about making love on the beach like it was something everyone did – and apparently everyone _did_ \- and listening to Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson laughing about the night he had to climb out the window of the nurses' quarters where he and his wife, who wasn't his wife at the time, had been fooling around left her head spinning. This was her parents! Talking about doing _that_!

Joy knew about sex, although not from any first-hand experience. When she was 13 and got her first period, her mother sat her down and said, "Honey, you're a woman now, there are a few things you need to know and I want you to hear them from me even though your friends may have already told you."

In spite of her mother's no-nonsense explanation, Joy still had a lot of questions. Yeah, she'd already heard about _that_ from friends who had older sisters and she had her doubts. But since her mother told her the same thing, it must be true and as she got older, and boys started to become more interesting, it started to make a lot more sense than it had four years prior.

But even armed with the technical knowledge, both she and KatieDee had been shocked into helpless giggles at both of their mothers' casual references to _that_. It was beyond her scope of reality. Joy had been on a few dates with boys – the homecoming dance at school last fall, a few movies, the July 4 fireworks show over the lake earlier this summer – but there hadn't been any second dates, at least none where the boy came to the house to pick her up. Second dates, if they happened, usually involved her meeting the boy in question with mutual friends at the movie theater or the skating rink and making it a group affair, not so much a one-on-one event, which was how she felt a proper date should be conducted.

Joy thought her daddy cleaning his old service weapon at the kitchen table whenever boys came to the house to pick her up might have something to do with the marked lack of second dates. She'd fired that gun herself – Daddy taught both her and Little Jim how to shoot – and she was suspicious of the amount of cleaning it suddenly required.

The fact Joy could field strip and reassemble the Colt 1911 in less than a minute, a skill she'd once demonstrated to one young man who'd come to squire her to the movies, probably hadn't helped her dating status either. In hindsight, she was sure that wasn't what poor Garrett Thompson had been expecting when he came to pick her up and when that story had gotten out, her interaction with the opposite sex had dwindled even more. In any event, Joy suspected the fact she was the daughter of Colonel Greg Boyington, USMC, Retired, had the unfortunate effect of her dates handling her with extreme caution.

In other words, there'd been no _handling_ at all. There'd been plenty of opportunities for it, she thought, but they'd remained just that - opportunity and nothing more. How in the world was she supposed to learn anything about boys when she couldn't even get one to kiss her? Her girlfriends assured her she was pretty and the reflection looking back at her from her dressing table mirror seemed agreeable enough - dark hair falling in loose curls, blue eyes tinged with aquamarine and a dimple in her left cheek when she smiled. She had her mother's finely sculpted cheekbones and long legs but a lot of good they seemed to be doing her. If she couldn't get a boy to pick her up at her house for a second date, she could just forget going steady. If Daddy would put away that damn gun, maybe boys wouldn't be afraid to touch her but so far, her father's unspoken warning regarding treatment of his daughter was wrecking her social life. Her mom wasn't any help, either. She just said, "Don't get in a hurry, Joy. Life goes fast enough without rushing things." Like that helped any. She'd turn 17 later this month and was sure she was destined for spinsterhood.

When she expressed this concern to KatieDee, her friend rolled her eyes and said her parents were the same way. Tori Hutchinson was forever reminding her daughter that boys should treat her with respect and she shouldn't hesitate to say no if they wanted to do something she wasn't comfortable with. KatieDee said her mother had told her the same eye-opening facts about men and women, so Joy figured they must be legit, not that she'd doubted her own mom.

Regardless, she thought just kissing a boy would be a nice place to start although that didn't seem destined to happen any time in the near future, thanks to a Colt that seemed to require a lot of cleaning on Saturday nights.

As the week of the reunion passed, she and KatieDee huddled in the shadows of the stairwell or pressed themselves against the kitchen door every chance they got, exchanging glances, hands clamped across their mouths to stifle giggles as they saw a side of their parents they'd never known existed. The adults were acting like kids again – and reliving days when they did the things they'd expressly warned their own kids _not_ to do - things that involved a lot of alcohol and taking off clothes. While it sounded like all parties involved had been willing, neither Joy nor KatieDee could imagine doing _that_ on a beach, let alone in a tent or in the com shack, whatever that was. Mrs. Casey had turned bright pink and swatted Mr. Casey when he told that story.

And so, she really didn't want the reunion to end. Even though Mama and Daddy had nearly driven her and Little Jim to exhaustion getting the house and grounds ready for company, Joy thought the Black Sheep reunion had been totally worth it. After a week of horseback riding, hiking, picnicking, canoeing and bonfires, it was like having a great big new family. She and KatieDee exchanged promises to be pen pals after everyone went home. Joy even thought her parents would let her go stay with the Hutchinsons in Michigan for a few weeks next summer. That would be awesome and not just because she'd get to see her new best friend.

 **XXX**

The light had gone soft with the approaching dusk as Joy darted, laughing, around the wing of the vintage plane and turned to see if she'd outdistanced her pursuers. She saw a single figure jogging toward her and bit back a smile. She didn't want to look too pleased about it.

The other kids had apparently given up on the game of tag, which made sense, given that the slanting golden-green rays of evening had blurred to indigo and purple shadows. Back at the kids' fire, Little Jim would be handing out marshmallows and roasting sticks. Joy wasn't above enjoying roasted marshmallows but right now, something else held her interest.

"Wait up," Andy Hutchinson panted as he reached the plane. He leaned against the wing, eyes closed, and caught his breath. He shoved a hand through red-blonde hair, pushed it off his forehead and looked around with a smile. Joy wondered if he was checking to see if they were alone. She'd done the same thing.

He was a year younger and a head taller than her, with the early promise of his father's lean build. She thought he had the dreamiest smile she'd ever seen. He was quiet and funny and didn't talk endlessly about himself like so many boys his age. In fact, he didn't talk much at all and preferred hanging out with her dad and Mr. Micklin – who everyone called Sarge – and his and KatieDee's dad – who everyone called Hutch – while they worked on 403. Joy spent a lot of time taking lemonade and cookies out to the hangar for breaks. She usually ended up staying, handing off tools and getting as filthy dirty as the men while they tinkered with the plane.

"Sudden interest in becoming a mechanic?" her father had teased, inclining his head toward Andy.

Her face grew warm at the memory. She was glad it was almost dark.

"Did we lose him?" She peered into the shadows. Little Jim had been following them around all day and she wasn't convinced he wasn't still lurking nearby. "Little brothers can be such a pain."

"Yeah. He went back to the fire." Andy grinned. "You think you've got it bad – try having a little brother and a little sister both."

"I like your sister. She's fun." Joy pushed her dark curls behind her ear, defying him to argue with her. She liked KatieDee Hutchinson. She liked Andy, too, for entirely different reasons and her stomach was all full of butterflies right now because of it.

Andy looked doubtful, as if he couldn't understand why anyone in their right mind would want to be around his sister any more than they had to.

"She's all right but she can't keep her nose in her own business," he grumbled. "If she knew we were out here, she'd have to get right in the middle of it. _What are you doing? Shouldn't you be back at the fire with everyone else? Why do you keep going off by yourselves?_ " He mimicked his sister with a wicked grin. "Mom says she fits her name perfectly – she was named for two nosy women who were always in the middle of everything, nothing against your mom," he added hastily. "I guess that was kinda her job."

KatieDee was named after Kate Cameron Boyington and one of Kate's best friends from the war, Dee Ryan, now Dee Casey. Joy privately thought Andy was right. She knew how nosy her mom could be. She was grateful when Andy changed the subject.

"I can't believe your dad found this," he said stroking a hand over the age-roughened surface of the plane's wing. "Getting hold of one of the planes he actually flew during the war - that's awesome."

"Yeah," Joy agreed. She thought it was awesome, too, and while most of the kids at the reunion had only shown polite interest in the relic for their parents' sake, she'd been delighted to discover Andy was as fascinated by it as she was. "Daddy calls it a legacy – something that gets passed down from one generation to the next. Mama calls it a _money pit_ and some other things, then she gives him one of those married people looks." She shrugged. She didn't think she would ever understand her parents' relationship – sometimes they teased and flirted like they wer _e_ still young.

Andy laughed.

"Your parents are cool."

Joy quit fiddling with a loose thread on her shirt and looked up in surprise. Andy didn't look like he was joking. His voice was sincere. She wasn't sure what to say.

"Your dad told me about how they got this plane, the first time, during the war," he continued. "It was like a movie or something - our parents stealing it right out from under the Navy's nose. I guess they did what they had to do, back then."

"Isn't it great?" Joy didn't specify if she meant the plane, how her parents had obtained the plane or how she felt about Andy thinking they were cool. To her, they were just Mama and Daddy – strength, security, patience, love, discipline and humor. She knew about how her mother had been a news correspondent during the war, how she met her father, and how she'd come home from the South Pacific, pregnant, when the whole world thought he'd been killed. The story of how her mother never stopped believing he was alive and waited for him, enduring the stigma of being an unwed mother, only to finally be reunited made her heart ache with the romance of it. She guessed they were kind of cool, too, even if she didn't go around telling everyone that. And even if they _had_ produced her annoying brother.

She slipped around Andy and stepped into the toe-hold on the trailing edge of the wing. Agile as a cat, she leaped up, then impulsively held out her hand.

"Come on."

Joy bit the inside of her lip, caught in the agony of wondering what she'd do if he didn't respond. She felt a little thrill of electricity ripple through her when he stepped into the toehold and reached up to grip her fingers. She stepped back and pulled him up after her. Andy caught his balance but didn't let go, a half-shy, half-pleased smile on his face. Joy knew it was reflected on hers. This wasn't the first time they'd held hands.

The fourth day of the gathering, just two days ago, it rained. Not a quick shower but a day-long downpour that saw outdoor activities grind to a halt. Faced with entertaining a hoard of bored kids, the parents had sent them into Tahoe Vista armed with money for popcorn, Cokes and tickets to see John Wayne in _North To Alaska_ at the theater on the town's main street.

Half way through the movie, in the semi-darkness of the theater, Andy had slipped his hand over hers. She'd smiled at him, letting her fingers return the gentle pressure as they twined with his. She couldn't remember much about the movie after that. She thought he might have kissed her if her pain in the ass little brother and the Anderson twins hadn't been sitting behind them, making smooching noises. Even though she would have happily clobbered Little Jim, she'd been secretly relieved. She wasn't sure she wanted Andy to kiss her when they were surrounded by people and John Wayne was thundering across the screen. It should happen somewhere much more private. Like here. Suddenly self-conscious, she dropped his hand.

"Are you sure it's okay for us to be up here?" Andy looked around from his perch on the wing. They were alone behind the main hangar, 403 having taxied there after Mr. Casey took it up for a short-lived and extremely smoky test flight that afternoon. In front of them, the ground fell away to a paddock for the horses and above them, the vault of the sky was sprinkled with stars.

"It's okay. It's not like we're going to break it," Joy said practically. "Daddy says the Corsair could take more damage from enemy fire than any other fighter in the war and still get the pilot home in one piece. I think it can hold us up."

"I still can't believe he flew this exact plane in the war."

"Yeah, but only for one mission," she said. "It was Mr. Wiley's for the rest of the war. Daddy said he turned out to be a decent pilot once he had a good plane under him."

Joy found another toe-hold and stretched long legs to swing up to the cockpit. She'd done it so many times, she could climb in and out without thinking about it. Even before she'd heard the engine turn over the first time, she'd been drawn to the plane. It was old and battered and wonderful and it fascinated her for reasons she didn't understand.

When they got it, she had sat in the pilot's seat while Daddy explained the intricacies of take offs and landings in a bird whose very construction reduced the pilot's visibility. He'd told her about how the Allies turned the tide of the war against the Japanese in these planes and about how he and the Black Sheep had landed them on the dirt airstrips of South Pacific islands and on rolling, pitching carrier decks where the slightest miscalculation could spell disaster.

"I'm going to fly it someday," she said quietly, brushing her fingertips over the control panel.

Andy leaned against the forward canopy.

"Really?" He sounded skeptical.

"You don't think a girl could fly this bird?"

"Oh! No! That's not what I meant," he said hastily and Joy swallowed a smile. She let her fingers linger briefly on the ignition switch, then resolutely pulled them back. Her father would kill her for firing the engine, not so much for starting it - she'd been allowed to do that dozens of times as they worked on it - but because she hadn't done anything resembling a pre-flight. She knew her father had made up a lot of his own rules when he was in the Corps but he'd impressed on both her and Little Jim the importance of protocols before you ever started an aircraft's engine. He'd been an absolute drill sergeant before he let her take the Cessna up last summer, solo, but she'd seen the pride on his face when she gave him a thumbs up and taxied down the strip.

She was aware of Andy watching her. Not just watching, but studying, like he was trying to figure out something. It gave her a tingly feeling. She swung out of the cockpit and they both sat on the wing, swinging their legs over the edge and watching fireflies without talking.

Joy liked sharing the silence with him. He was easy to be around, no matter what they were doing. And he didn't seem to care one way or the other that she was Greg Boyington's daughter. He called her dad "sir" but he didn't act like he was afraid of him, like most of the boys she'd dated had. And when she'd outshot him on the range earlier this week, he hadn't gotten his ego bruised. He'd laughed as he shook her hand and called her Annie Oakley.

Thinking of his hand, she reached out and slipped her fingers into his.

"I'm glad your family's staying a while longer after everybody else goes home, so your dad can help more with the repairs," she said.

"Is that the only reason?" Andy's smile widened with good natured teasing and Joy was suddenly aware of his arm brushing hers.

She gave him a shy smile, unintentionally mirroring the look of half-innocence, half-invitation she'd seen her mother give her father when neither of them thought she was looking. It had the same effect and Joy felt an unaccustomed surge of heat shoot through her as Andy's dark brown eyes widened in response. Her heart stepped up a notch.

"No," she whispered, her throat gone mysteriously dry. Her heart was pounding so loudly now he had to be able to hear it.

"Good."

He held her eyes for an agonizing moment, then leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. Joy stiffened at the rush of sensation. Something in her belly soared, wings beating fiercely as she relaxed into the gentle pressure of his mouth. It was the easiest thing she'd ever done and she wondered why she'd waited so long. She was delighted when his fingertips brushed her jaw and a whole new round of fireworks sparkled through her.

The kiss was glorious and it ended entirely too soon. Unsure of what she should do next, she pressed her face into his chest, pleased to discover his heart was racing as quickly as hers. He slipped his hands around her waist, fingers warm through the fabric of her shirt. She thought she might have floated right off the wing if he hadn't been holding onto her.

Still riding a wave of sensation, she threw caution to the wind and stretched up to kiss him again. Her boldness caught him off guard but he recovered without hesitation. When their lips parted, she couldn't hold back the grin that came bubbling up from her toes.

"What?" he looked a little puzzled but he was grinning, too.

"You," she said shyly. "I've never . . . you're the first boy I've kissed."

He looked surprised, then relieved, and chuckled.

"Good. You don't have anything to compare me to."

She laughed, delighted at his honesty. Everything about him felt so right. He pulled her toward him and she slid willingly into his arms. This kiss lasted longer. When it ended, she thought he looked worried, although not enough to take his hands off her.

"Your parents . . .," he started. "I mean . . . should we be doing this . . . here?"

Joy paused and bit her lip. She had no idea what her parents would do if they caught them making out, let alone making out on her dad's half-wrecked old war bird. She squeezed Andy's hand.

"I don't know," she said honestly, "but I'll take the chance."

He grinned and kissed her again. This time, his lips moved lightly over her cheekbones and eyelids before returning to her mouth. Joy felt like she was glowing with an inner flame that would never go out. His hands were still on her waist and she thought that was a good place for them. As much as she liked how she felt when she was kissing him, she wasn't sure she wanted it to go any further right now. Mama never came right out and told her she shouldn't do _that_ with a boy until she was married, she just told Joy since she was growing up, she needed to accept the consequences for her actions. Joy knew what that meant.

"Do you think our parents ever did this?" she mused. "On a plane, I mean."

Andy's laugh started as a chuckle and grew, his tone infectious, and she joined him, both of them laughing until they were both gasping for breath. He recovered first.

"I think our parents did things during the war they're never going to tell us," he said drily.

"Yeah. KatieDee and I overheard them talking about . . . uh . . . stuff . . . the other night."

"What kind of stuff?"

"You know." Joy knew she was blushing. She'd only known Andy for a week. " _That_ kind of stuff."

"Oh. That." He paused and she was grateful to hear a hint of awkwardness in his voice, like he might be embarrassed, too. "It's weird, thinking about our parents doing that."

"Well, obviously they did or we wouldn't be here," Joy said, unsure if she wanted to change the subject or not. She rubbed her hands on her bare arms. The sun was down now and the temperature dropped quickly from the sun-drenched afternoon.

"Are you cold?" Andy caught her hands between his. Joy thought she'd never felt warmer, in spite of the ripple of goose bumps that said otherwise. He didn't give her a chance to answer.

"Wait just a minute, I'll be right back." Before she could protest, he slid off the wing and disappeared into the shadows. A minute later, he was back with something in his hand and a large bundle under his arm. He tossed the first up to her and she caught it reflexively. It was a sweatshirt. His sweatshirt, she realized, emblazoned with a Michigan State University logo.

"You can put that on, if you're cold," he said but she was already pulling it over her head. It smelled like him, she realized with a little jolt and that gave her another set of goose bumps that had nothing to do with the air temperature.

"Thanks," she managed and stretched her hands out to catch the large bundle. It was a sleeping bag. Andy climbed up after it, his feet as quick to find the toe hold as his dad's, she noted, like he'd already spent a lifetime on and around planes just like this one.

"I hope it's okay to borrow this. I saw it in the corner of the office in the hangar when I got my sweatshirt. I thought . . . ," He hesitated. "I mean . . . maybe we could just stay out here a while, the view is really great for stargazing and . . . well . . . not just the stars . . ." He stumbled over the words, exasperated, then gave up and kissed her. His kiss was much more certain than his words.

Joy unzipped the flannel-lined sleeping bag and spread it out on the wing. The two of them stood, looking uncertainly at one another across the expanse of olive drab fabric until Joy settled herself and patted the space next to her. After a little awkward maneuvering, they lay on their backs, close but not too close. He smelled wonderfully of soap and something she couldn't identify but liked a lot.

"I think," she teased, "your parents were more likely to do this than mine."

"How do you figure that?" He sounded serious, like she'd just explained the meaning of the universe.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "Mama and Daddy don't talk about what they did in the South Pacific very much – other than the official stuff that everybody knows anyway - but I don't think they, um, fooled around where anyone might interrupt them. I overheard Mama talking to your mom and Aunt Sarah and she said -," Joy drew in a breath and mimicked her mother's tone with alarming accuracy, " 'Those boys interrupted us constantly, you could bet the farm on it. I know they didn't do it on purpose but it was like they could hear buttons being unfastened from a mile away.' " She hesitated, awkward again. "It still seems really weird, thinking about them back then. Mama was only 23. Daddy was 35 when they met. He always says she'll keep him young if she doesn't kill him first. I'm not really sure what he means by that."

She paused, biting her lip. Andy was so easy to talk to but she didn't want to overstep any boundaries.

"I think you're right," he said.

"I am?" It was her turn to be puzzled.

"Yeah. I think my parents probably _did_ fool around somewhere like this." He gave the wing an affectionate slap.

"Are you serious?" She was grateful he hadn't laughed at her and a little surprised he was willing to continue the conversation.

"I know my dad had a tent to himself out by the flight line on their base, not by the other tents, and I think my mom used to, um, visit him. They could have done . . . stuff . . . and not been interrupted."

Joy giggled.

"How did we get on this subject?"

"You started it." Andy grinned at her.

Joy gave a little jump and pointed upward.

"Oh! Did you see that?" As she spoke, a silver flame blazed across the sky. They watched, expectantly, as several more meteors arced overhead.

"I know my parents did _this_ during the war," Andy said. "They'd go to the beach to watch shooting stars. Sometimes we all go out to the pasture back home and watch when there are meteor showers."

"Mama said sometimes she and Daddy went to the beach to watch them, too," Joy said dreamily. Laying here next to Andy, she felt as if she were soaring through the dark sky with the stars themselves. "I know that's not the only thing they did there but she's told me about the falling stars."

"Then neither of our parents should have a problem with us doing this," Andy said. "It's a legacy, something passed down from one generation to the next."

She smiled and he kissed her again.

 **Epilogue**

 **10 years later**

 **Summer 1970**

 **Vintage Wings Air Show**

"Thank you, Captain John Allen for sharing Eagle's Pride with us today. Always a thrill to see that beautiful bird back in the sky and we tip our hats to you again, sir, for your service to our country."

The announcer's voice boomed through pole-mounted loud speakers as a silver P-51 Mustang dipped its wings on a final pass by the stands. Applause rose in a crescendo, then faded as the Mustang dropped toward a landing at the end of the field.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I want to take the opportunity to thank you again for joining us for the Vintage Wings Air Show as we salute the men who flew these planes in the European and South Pacific theaters during the second world war. Some of those boys made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure our country's freedoms," the announcer continued.

"Now get your binoculars ready, folks. Our next war bird is a familiar one here at Vintage Wings and always a crowd favorite. It was credited with turning the tide of the war in the South Pacific as it was the first American fighter able to counter the menace of the Japanese Zero.

"If you've been to our show before, you'll recognize the plane. For the last four years, she's been piloted at Vintage Wings by retired United States Marine Corps Colonel Gregory Boyington. The World War II ace and his crew spent several years restoring this 1943 Chance Vought F4U Corsair and she's a beauty. If you got to see her on the line during the pilots' meet and greet, you'll agree they did a fantastic job.

"Colonel Boyington and his lovely wife Katherine call this plane 'Legacy.' The Colonel and his men flew her as part of the Black Sheep Squadron during the war and starting with this year's show, she'll have a new pilot. The Boyington's daughter, Joyce Hutchinson, will be in the cockpit, opening a new chapter in the history of our air show. She's the first female pilot to fly here and if this little gal has half her daddy's skill in the air, you're in for a treat."

 **XXX**

The announcer's voice came through loud and clear on the hangar's audio system.

Kate saw her daughter narrow her eyes at the last comment. She swallowed a smile. _Welcome to being a woman in a man's world_.

"Little gal?" Joy snorted as she adjusted the zipper on her flight suit. "Who writes that crap?"

"Here." Kate handed over a helmet and pair of aviator shades. "I wrote the introduction for _Legacy_ but sounds like that was a waste of time since the announcer is using his own creative license." She grinned. "You're the only estrogen at this flying sausage festival. He doesn't know what to say about you."

As if determined to prove Kate wrong, the announcer charged ahead with his monologue, filling time with easy banter while the spectators shifted restlessly, craning their necks for their first view of the next plane.

"If you got a chance to check out the Legacy and talk to the Boyington family this morning, you'll know this isn't Joy Hutchinson's first rodeo. She's been flying since she was a teenager and works side-by-side with her parents at Boyington Charter Air Service up in Tahoe Vista. Her husband Andy is the son of John and Victoria Hutchinson. John served as chief mechanic for Colonel Boyington's unit during the war and played an integral part in bringing this old girl back to glory. Yessir, the Boyingtons are fine folks and always willing to share their slice of history with fans. They'll be back on the line following this afternoon's show, so stop by and chat. I know firsthand Greg and Katherine have some top tier stories from the war."

It was Kate's turn to grimace. Greg had no lack of stories, that was for sure. She should probably pay a little closer attention to which ones he was telling.

One of the show organizers, a frantic-looking man with a clipboard, buzzed up in a golf car.

"The strip is clear, they're ready for you, Miss . . . um . . . Mrs. . . . um . . ."

"Just call me Joy." Joyce straightened the collar of the navy blue flight suit embroidered with the white Boyington Charter Air Service logo and flashed a smile at the man, a dimple creasing her left cheek. The man's eyes went slightly out of focus.

Kate didn't bother to hide her smile this time. She had watched her daughter grow from a headstrong child to an impetuous teen to a beautiful young woman to this – pilot, business partner, wife, mother. Joy and Andy were full partners in Boyington Air, Joy as a pilot, Andy as a mechanic who was even more skilled with a wrench than his father, although Kate didn't know how that was possible.

She didn't know how any of it was possible. Time seemed to ripple, layering decades one atop another in a blur of color and scent. Kate remembered the day almost 27 years earlier when she'd stood in the heat of a South Pacific afternoon, dizzy with the realization she was pregnant with Greg's child. It seemed so long ago, yet almost like yesterday.

"Mama! Gramma!"

Kate snapped back to the present to see a dark-haired toddler running pell-mell across the tarmac, chubby legs churning as fast as they could.

"Ian! Whoa, little man!" Kate bent and scooped him up. "Your mama has to fly the plane right now. How about we watch her together?"

"I fly, too!" the little boy announced. He had piercing blue eyes and not for the first time, Kate marveled at genetics. Ian Hutchinson was the spit and image 3-year-old version of his maternal grandfather, right down to the dimples and the attitude.

"You probably will fly but not today." Kate wrestled him onto her hip. "What have you done with Grandpa and Uncle Jim?"

"Sorry, darlin', he got away from me." Jim Gutterman appeared around the corner of the hangar. He stopped and boosted a beaming 4-year-old girl in a pink sundress off his shoulders. "Damn. If I'd known grandkids were so much fun, I'd have had them first. And these two aren't even mine."

The little girl hugged Jim's leg, then scampered toward Kate and Joy.

"Grampa said he'd buy me ice cream and cotton candy after we watch you fly!" she announced ecstatically to her mother.

"I'm going to send you home with him if he feeds you all that, **"** Joy said. "Come here and give me a kiss, then be good for your grandma. They're waiting for me."

The little girl planted a big smack on her mother's cheek and danced around Kate, tugging at her hand.

"I fly!" Ian insisted, wigging in Kate's grasp.

Joy dropped her helmet gently over his head. Mad giggling issued from inside it.

"Whatever you do, don't let Dad feed them everything he wants to," Joy warned. "Or I _will_ send them home with you guys. Andy and I would love a night to ourselves."

"Your father will do as he pleases and we both know it," Kate mused. She peered around Jim then turned back to Joy. "Where's everyone else?"

"Dad's out front with John and Andy, obsessing. You'd think this was the first time I'd taken her up." She snorted but her smile was affectionate. "Sarah wrestled her brood into the VIP seating. Jack and Denise were headed that way, too, with their bunch. Jack's got all his camera gear with him. I think he's going to shoot from the infield tower."

Again, Kate felt the years wrap around her like an embrace. Her and Greg's son, Jim, insisted he'd suffered irreparable damage by being called Little Jim for years to avoid confusion with his namesake, Jim Gutterman. When he graduated high school, he'd successfully campaigned for a nickname change and had been Jack Boyington ever since, regardless of what it said on his birth certificate. Kate knew Joy still teased him with the nickname every chance she got. After globe-trotting as an assignment photographer with National Geographic for five years, Jack married and settled down, doing free-lance photography for the Associated Press and helping out when Boyington Air needed another pilot.

"I swear, once the Boyingtons and Hutchinsons and Guttermans all get out there, there won't be room left for anyone else." Jim laughed and did a sudden double take at the little girl in the pink sundress. "That one is yours, isn't she? Don't tell me I brought you the wrong one. Yeah, she's yours, she looks just you, Kate."

Kate assured him the child in question was indeed Christine, Joy and Andy's firstborn. The little girl had the curly version of her dad's red gold hair but her gray eyes and dark lashes reflected Kate's features.

"Whew," Jim feigned relief. "There's gotten to be an awful lot of them. How you doin', Joy? You ready for this?"

"Never better!" Joy flashed him a smile and Kate saw Greg's easy confidence shine through it. "Sure you don't want to take her up for old time's sake?"

"Naw. I wouldn't be showy enough for this audience. Besides, I wouldn't remember how to fly that thing unless someone was shootin' at me." Jim tipped his baseball cap. "I better go help Sarah with the grandkids. Show 'em how it's done, darlin'." He turned and headed toward the infield stands.

Joy reclaimed her helmet and kissed Ian on top of his dark curls. She turned and walked purposefully out of the hanger. Kate adjusted the toddler on her hip and taking Christine's warm little hand, followed, smiling even more broadly at the scene in front of her.

Andy Hutchinson was leaning precariously into the cockpit, his baseball cap on backwards. He righted himself and waved at the approaching assemblage, then he shouted something to his father. John – Hutch, he'd always be Hutch to her, Kate thought – Hutchinson yelled back and moved to the other side of the plane. His slight limp was the only reminder of the incident in 1943 that nearly cost him his life.

Greg was balanced on the opposite wing, pointing at something on the instrument panel. His backside was facing her and he hadn't changed out of the World War II era flight suit he'd worn earlier in the day. Kate sighed. The man still made her heart skip a beat. The years had been kind to him and even though his hair was shot through with gray, he carried himself with the unarguable sense of power she remembered from the first day they'd met. His eyes still sparkled with the intense blue that could derail her train of thought with the slightest lift of an eyebrow and the curve of muscle under the fabric of the flight suit made her want to wrap her hands around his hips and pull him close. Their kids would be properly horrified if they knew how thoroughly their parents still enjoyed each other in the bedroom. She was barely 50 and well, Greg always joked she kept him young.

Andy dropped back to the tarmac and waved in a wait-a-minute gesture as Joy approached.

"Don't fire the engine yet!" He yelled and dashed around the plane's nose. "I want to double check that cowling pin."

"You've double checked it six times," Joy shouted as she angled toward the plane. "I've got to go!"

She bent and gave Christine and little Ian a quick hug.

"Be good for your grandma. Ice cream when I get back, I promise!"

"And cotton candy," Christine reminded her with the conviction of a child who has been promised something and intends to collect. Kate decided she was staying out of it. When it came to his grandkids, Greg never backed out of a promise. If Joy and Andy sent the two kids, sky-high on a sugar buzz, home with their grandparents after the air show, Kate knew they'd all love every minute of it. She'd thought Greg was a complete pushover for his own kids when they were little. He was ten times worse with Chrissy and Ian. Of course, so was she. With a pedigree like theirs, it was impossible not fall victim to their irrepressible charm.

"Keep the mixture control on auto rich until you get some altitude and come around for the first pass by the stands," Greg said as Joy pulled on her helmet. "Watch the crosswind off the lake at the end of the strip and remember this runway's longer than what you're used to lifting off from at home so you won't need to – "

"Dad." Joy rested her hand on his arm. "I'm a grown ass woman with a husband and two kids. And this isn't my first rodeo, remember?" She looked at the plane gleaming in the summer sunshine. It had taken four years but it had been restored to within a hair's breadth of factory specs. "I've been flying her for six years – you just finally let go long enough to let me have some fun in public."

Greg raised his hands in defeat but the smile on his face radiated pride.

"Knock 'em dead, sweetheart. Remember, this is the plane they all come to see – not the Mustang, not the Hellcat, not the Lightning. They came to see the Corsair. Give 'em their money's worth."

"I will." She smiled and kissed his cheek. Again, Kate felt the years fall away, remembered the chilly autumn afternoon in 1945 when father and daughter met for the first time. Joy had been barely a year old, Greg just back in the states after being released from a Japanese POW camp. They'd been unable to take their eyes off one another.

Andy dashed around the wing, wrench in one hand and a grease rag trailing from a hip pocket. The awkward teenager Kate had met at the first Black Sheep reunion 10 years ago had grown into a lean, muscular man with a quiet disposition and a wicked sense of humor.

"Be safe, babe. Try not to break anything - I'd like to get a night off." He kissed Joy and watched as she sprang onto the wing, then swung from the toeholds into the cockpit. She flashed a thumbs up, Andy pulled the chocks and the familiar rumble of the 2,000 horsepower Pratt and Whitney R-2800 Double Wasp engine roared to life.

Kate handed a wiggling Ian off to Andy and holding Christine's hand, walked arm in arm with Greg toward the infield where bleachers were set up for the families and ground crew of the airshow pilots. As Joy steered the fighter past them onto the airstrip, Kate glanced at the nose art adorning the plane and shook her head. She would _never_ get used to that. It wasn't that she didn't like it, it was just, well . . . a little much.

None of the Corsairs the Black Sheep had flown during the war had ever been decorated like this. One or two might have had a sweetheart's name hand-lettered somewhere but nothing that went this far. Once they'd finished restoring the mechanical systems of number 403, Tori Hutchinson tapped her talent for creating WWII nostalgia art and proposed a design. Greg whole-heartedly sanctioned the concept in spite of Kate's immediate protests when she saw the prototype.

The finished product was, as numerous male air show patrons pointed out, absolutely spectacular.

"Legacy" swirled in slanted script under a slightly risqué portrayal of a long-legged girl semi-reclined in a pin-up's teasing pose. She was wearing frayed shorts with the top button open and a sleeveless white shirt tied up to reveal both midriff and cleavage. There was no doubt who it was.

When Joy saw it for the first time, she looked at her mother and said, "Really, Mom? You ran around like that in the middle of a war?"

"Yes, dear, really," Kate replied with perfect composure. "But only when I wanted to get your father's attention."

The announcer's voice broke through her reverie.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let me remind you again this air show is a tribute to the men and women of these United States' armed forces. We're lucky to have these veteran pilots sharing their vintage aircraft with us today, as well as seeing a new generation of pilots stepping up to keep history alive. Let's welcome our next pilot, Joyce Hutchinson, flying the F4U Corsair her father flew in combat in the South Pacific."

Applause roared from the stands.

He only flew it in one mission, Kate mused, and thank God Colonel Thomas Lard wasn't sitting in the crowd today. No doubt the man was still trying to figure out what had happened to 403 after it went missing from Espritos. She wouldn't put it past the man to try slapping a court martial on Greg after all these years if he ever got to the bottom of that caper.

Kate herded Christine ahead of her and slid into the bleachers next to Greg. The little girl scrambled to sit on her grandfather's lap. Ian was comfortably ensconced with Tori and Hutch as Andy slid in behind his parents. On seats in front of them, Sarah and Jim and their three kids craned their necks as they heard the familiar roar of the engine from the far end of the strip.

It had been Greg's idea to name the plane, Kate thought. It had been little more than a flying scrap heap when Charlie Bennett ferried it to their place from the airplane graveyard in Arizona but Greg had been adamant about restoring it to its former glory.

Not only had he wanted it named, he wanted it named something that would reflect their family, from his and Kate's tumultuous relationship during the war to their separation and reunion, marriage, the kids and the business they'd started, as well as whatever the future might hold.

The plane had, indeed, served as a touchstone for the Boyington family. Both Joy and Jack had mastered its power, although after one particularly rough landing a few years ago, Jack had unapologetically announced his sister was welcome to the damned thing before it killed him.

Greg had done the West Coast air show circuit as time permitted, he and Joy wearing vintage World War II aviators' garb as they greeted show-goers who flocked to ooh and ahh over the big bent-wing bird. Wearing a borrowed Navy nurse's uniform – some things never changed – Kate had joined them, taking great pleasure in watching father and daughter share the limelight as they talked to other veteran pilots and wide-eyed children as well, posing for pictures and signing autographs. Jack captured it all on film and his prints joined the collection of her own work on the walls of the air service office.

Kate looked up and drank in the sight of the familiar inverted gull wing silhouette as Legacy swept by the stands to thunderous applause. Sunlight flashed off high gloss blue paint as her prop chewed the air and the trademark Corsair whistle filled the afternoon air. Greg wrapped his arm around Kate's shoulders and she leaned into him, enjoying his solid presence, the gleeful clapping of the little Chrissy and Ian, the cheerful shouts from all the other family and friends surrounding them.

Something handed down from generation to generation, she thought. With the same unarguable confidence that marked everything they'd done together during the war and since, he'd hit the target with this, too.

 **THE END**

This has been a fun story to tell and I'm sad to see it end. Thank you for reading. It's always a delight to share a story and I appreciate your comments and encouragement along the way, especially everyone in the Sheep Pen. Ya'll know who you are.


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